


The Rose and Thorn

by qqueenofhades



Series: The Swan and Crossbones [2]
Category: Black Sails, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M, Multi, Next Generation, Swan-Jones Family, The Dark Horizon, Treasure Island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-10-30 10:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 406,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10874616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/pseuds/qqueenofhades
Summary: Sequel to The Dark Horizon. The New World, 1740: Killian and Emma Jones have lived in peace with their family for many years, their pirate past long behind them. But with English wars, Spanish plots, rumors of a second Jacobite rising, and the secret of the lost treasure of Skeleton Island, they and their son and daughter are in for a dangerous new adventure. OUAT/Black Sails.





	1. I

The bastard on the parapet above was very definitely aiming directly at him, and that, no matter his mixed feelings on why he was here in the first place, was the one thing Samuel Jones found bloody inexcusable. He ducked as the next round from the apparently very dedicated Spaniard blasted the trunk of the palm tree next to him, then fumbled another cartridge from his belt, tore the twist with his teeth, poured half the powder into the pan, and pulled his grimy ramrod to shove the ball, and the rest of the powder, down the barrel. Drew a bead on his target – the officers had about given up calling through the usual _make ready, present, fire_ commands in the heavy bombardment, and every man was more or less shooting at will anyway – cocked it, closed one eye, sighted down the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

The gun kicked, boomed, and actually went off, which was always a happy surprise when it did. Peering through the smoke, Sam could see to his chagrin that he had not shot the Spaniard, though by the volume and quantity of what sounded like some very Catholic curses, he thought he had at least come close. He crouched back down to start the cumbersome reloading process yet again, thinking that when he had agreed to do this (well, insofar as he had had an actual choice), it had been, in his mind, far more glamorous. The order had gone out through the Province of Georgia for all able-bodied men of arms-bearing age, sixteen to sixty, to join Governor James Oglethorpe in his march to St. Augustine, the capital of Spanish _La Florida,_ and (theoretically, at least) capture it for the English Crown. Such, therefore, was the idea.

Reality, naturally, was turning out to be far more complicated. To say the least, Sam's family had an extremely delicate history with the English Crown, and this war, which had broken out last year, 1739, on deliberate provocation by the British to improve their economic position in the New World and hang onto their slave-trading right with Spanish colonies, was about as dislikable as it was possible to get. England and Spain were always fighting each other anyway, and Sam's father and grandfather had both been strongly against his going (his mother as well, though for different reasons). Sam understood their philosophical objections, and to some degree shared them, but he himself had different concerns. His twentieth birthday was in September, and he absolutely did not intend to be the only young man of his age sitting around on his hands while the rest went off to war. The society and good opinion of a number of fetching young ladies was at stake. He was going to make the most of this.

It _was_ possible, Sam reflected, as he squinted against the glare off the water, that there were easier ways to accomplish this objective. The siege of St. Augustine had been, thus far, a very nearly unmitigated disaster. While Oglethorpe had started out with some modest success, the Spanish had recaptured the satellite citadel of Fort Mose in a surprise attack, wiping out half the Highlander and Indian contingent that had held it, and the Royal Navy blockade in the harbor – which by the very word, _blockade,_ was supposed to keep Spanish supply ships out – had failed at that one job, allowing them to slip through the siege lines and replenish St. Augustine's dwindling provisions. Sam's father, the former Royal Navy lieutenant who had fought in several battles of the last major Anglo-Spanish war (now about four wars ago) would have been absolutely aghast at this incompetence, and it had left the British army, on its heels, with no option but to try to bash their way into the city by brute force. Which, given current events, was shaping up exactly as well as might be expected.

Sam ducked again as a second blast from the Spanish artillery on the walls crumpled the much-abused tree next to him into matchwood. His ears were ringing, and sweat was pouring down his back from the bruising July heat. He was not wearing the ubiquitous red coat of a soldier, but the blue wool jacket of a Continental militiaman, and either way, he was bloody boiling. He shucked it off, tucked his linen blouson shirt back into his breeches, and threw a hopeful look at the sky, imploring it to help out with a breeze or a bit of rain. Though he was likely to regret that instantly if it actually did, as it would turn this entire low-lying salt plain into hellacious mud, and Commodore Pearce, the lion-hearted commander of the Navy fleet, already had his bloomers in a bunch about hurricane season. One drop, and he'd probably run screaming, wig flying.

Sam snorted to himself, reloaded his musket again (he wasn't as fast as the well-drilled Army lads who could get off four shots a minute, but he wasn't some bumbling backwater country boy either – not that you'd know, the looks he got) and fired. The Spaniard was engaged in preparing to visit some other malfeasance on him, and this momentarily interrupted said proceedings. Indeed, their eyes locked among the chaos, and Sam had the brief and unsettling impression that the man knew him from somewhere, or had otherwise some animus with him that went beyond the general conventions of two blokes on either side of a flag trying to blast each other's brains out. Then there was another explosion, the field gun next to Sam backfired and someone went down screaming, and he forgot about it.

A few more inconclusive salvos were exchanged for the next few hours, but it was clear that the resupplied city was well prepared to hold against a few piddling bombardments, and Sam heard the officers yelling to fall back. God, this was embarrassing. They outnumbered the Spanish almost three to one between Army, militia, and Indians, boasted five Navy frigates and three sloops, and yet they were the ones scuttling away with their tails between their legs. It was a slog of close to a mile back to the British camp, a small tent city pitched on marsh and cut by glades (which, camp rumor held, contained several man-eating crocodiles), and the soot-faced, sweaty men were trudging in hungry, tired, and massively dispirited. It was clear that unless something changed, and quickly, they had permanently lost the advantage in Florida, and sporadic pay had not improved their tempers. The regulars could be more or less assured of theirs, but the militiamen were already clothed and supplied at their own expense, and as the Crown tended to hold the position that they should feel grateful to serve their rightful sovereign from the goodness of their hearts, this was not a profitable occupation. Or –

"Jones. Hey. Jones!"

Sam looked up with a start at the shout, to see his friend Nathaniel Hunt, one of the other men who had come from Savannah, where the Swan-Jones family lived after moving from Boston fifteen years ago. Sam was madly in love with Nathaniel's sister Isabelle, who was chief among the young ladies whose good graces he hoped to obtain by this venture, and he turned to him, wiping his face with his arm. "Aye?"

"General Oglethorpe wants to see you." Hunt looked rather intimidated. "Personally."

"Oh?" Sam had to repress a brief swoop of unease. He had figured that he was mostly invisible among the ranks, and extra scrutiny was never terribly welcome for someone of his particular pedigree. To have the commander asking for you by name was. . . well, hopefully it was just to settle up about those back wages, but not terribly likely. "I'll be along in a moment, then."

As Hunt trotted off, presumably to relay this message, Sam untied his long dark hair from its thong, combed his fingers through it, and splashed a little water on his face, which had only a minimal effect on the accumulated dust. He scouted up a new jacket and retied his neckerchief, and when he looked more or less presentable for an audience with the general – who, apart from his military station, was also the governor of the Province of Georgia and someone with the power to make things difficult for Sam and his family – swallowed hard and set off across the camp. Twilight streaked crimson and orange and gold across the western sky, and supper fires were starting to be lit, small earthbound stars, as clouds of stinging insects buzzed up from the marshes. The soldiers slapped them, grumbled, cursed, passed around canteens and bowls of stew, sitting on half-rotted logs and leaning their muskets against knots of saltgrass. Sam suddenly desired their company more than he had a minute ago, if an unexpected visit had cropped up in the meantime. This was probably nothing. Routine procedure.

He reached the central tent after a few more minutes, gave his name to the redcoats on guard outside, and waited as they ducked in to inform Oglethorpe. Then they beckoned him through, and Sam advanced warily as the flaps fell shut behind him. He had a pistol in his belt, not that he thought he could shoot the bloody Governor if this went pear-shaped, and he clasped his hands behind him, feeling as if he was back at school with the particularly irascible Latin master. "Ah – Your Excellency? I'm Samuel Jones. You wanted to see me?"

"Yes." James Oglethorpe was a trim mid-forties aristocrat in a currently rather damp and flyaway wig, which he seemed to have made a losing effort to tame. He was sitting behind a camp desk heaped with piles of papers and parchments: requisition orders, army reports, maps of the region, dispatches from the scouts and spies, and doubtless a hundred and one bellyaching letters from Commodore Pearce about the needs of the fleet. A few candles were wedged precariously onto the edge, along with some fugitive inkwells and penknives and a half-finished plate of dinner and decanter of brandy. "At your ease, soldier."

The last thing Sam felt was at ease, but he snapped a salute, clicked his heels, then adopted a slightly more casual posture, taking the camp chair across from Oglethorpe when the governor nodded to it. He tried not to fiddle with the loose thread on his jacket cuff. "Sir?" he prompted, when Oglethorpe kept writing. Likely shouldn't, keep your mouth shut until the commanding officer spoke to you, so on and so forth, but holding his tongue (or his temper) had never been one of his particular virtues. "Did you – "

Oglethorpe gave him a dry look, as if to say that he would find out if he just shut up for a moment, and removed the gadroon from the candle, dropping melted wax onto the letter and sealing it with a stamp of his ring. Then he said, "You are Samuel Jones of Savannah, Georgia?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is your father Killian Jones, formerly first lieutenant of HMS _Imperator_ in the Royal Navy?"

A slight chill went down Sam's back, as this was never a well-boding line of questioning. Still, he kept his expression neutral. "Yes, sir."

"And your mother, I believe – " Oglethorpe checked one of his papers. "Emma Jones, née Swan, who was at one point in operation of a vessel, the _Blackbird,_ that – pursued business opportunities outside of the usual parameters of enterprise?"

"If you're asking if my mother was a pirate," Sam said bluntly, "I think you know the answer."

Both of Oglethorpe's eyebrows raised at that, but he forbore to rebuke this impertinency. He set aside his papers and regarded Sam levelly, fingers steepled. "Both your parents, weren't they? Your father's notorious alias was Hook, later in his career?"

Sam winced. So much for this being innocuous. "My parents have been upright citizens for almost three decades. And considering that Georgia was founded to provide a refuge for those who might have landed themselves on the wrong side of England's laws – you should recall, sir, as you did the founding – surely you can't be registering a moral objection now?"

"There is," Oglethorpe said, "rather _some_ difference between the honest poor abused in workhouses, those escaping the unjust vicissitudes of religious oppression, and other such deserving refugees, than there are between notorious and unrepentant high seas pirates. On that note, I believe your grandfather was also a pirate? James McGraw, known as Captain Flint – reported dead some years ago, by hanging?"

Sam kept his face straight. The number of ersatz "Flints" captured by the authorities and inevitably executed had in fact become something of a running joke with his family – "hanged you again last week, Grandpa" – but this meant that Oglethorpe had been doing quite a bit of digging. Not merely to boast about it, either. "Aye," he said, since there wasn't much use in denying it outright. "But my grandfather is, as you say, dead."

"Mm. And you are most likely named for the late Captain Samuel Bellamy, a former close associate of your parents, and _also_ a pirate?"

"Yes," Sam said resignedly, deciding not to mention that this man was additionally his godfather, as he had a feeling that would be making Oglethorpe's point for him. "Also a pirate."

" _Mmmmm."_ Oglethorpe's nostrils pinched, but at least he was not shouting for the redcoats to rush in and string Sam up – yet – so there had to be some purpose to this interrogation. "Well, young Jones. You have a. . . colorful genealogy."

"Yes, sir." Sam was thirsty as buggeration, but he did not suppose that the governor was about to offer him a drink. "Anyone else to ask me about, sir?"

Oglethorpe gave him a cold fish-eye, seemed to consider it, and then sat back. "That will suffice for the moment. I suppose it's to your credit that you are forthcoming about it. Though, one would also reckon, quite dangerous."

"My parents never tried to hide who our family was, and used to be. Even as much as they've lived peacefully since they left that world behind." Sam's tone matched the governor's for levelness, but he was not about to sit here and listen to his kin be slandered to his face. "Is there a purpose to this? Sir?"

"So you are going to claim that, despite this, you are a loyal subject?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Sam decided it was best to finesse this question. "Fighting for you? And from what I can tell, the whole thing has gone tits up without any help at all from me."

Oglethorpe looked pained.

"Er." Sam coughed. "Feet. Feet up."

"Well – despite your markedly uncouth matter of phrasing it, I cannot argue with your conclusions." Oglethorpe took the decanter and poured a bracing tot of brandy for himself. "The failure of the blockade was a serious blow, and by all indications, we will have to retreat. That damnable poltroon Pearce has also turned lily-livered about keeping the fleet out in hurricane season – though considering what happened twenty-five years ago, just down the coast, I suppose he has a point."

Sam concurred on this accord, as the legendary wreck of the 1715 Spanish treasure fleet was an event well known across the New World, and once more pertinent to his family history. He was, however, slightly wary as to why Oglethorpe had turned that quickly from interviewing him about said history to dropping bits of undeniably sensitive intelligence. His first instinct – that Oglethorpe wanted to blackmail him somehow – felt accurate, but it was more than that. Having made it clear what was at stake if Sam should refuse, viz. the potential continued peaceful existence of his entire family, the carrot must now follow the stick, and Sam didn't feel like waiting it out. "Well?" he said. "What do you want from me?"

Oglethorpe's eyebrows made a now fairly-accustomed pilgrimage toward his hairline. "Do you always speak so. . . openly to your superiors?"

"I'm not one for flimflam." Sam leaned back in his chair. "You do want something from me, don't you? That's what you're getting at. You've been elegantly insinuating how much you know about my family and how much trouble you could make if I don't cooperate. Let's assume for the moment that I'm cooperating. What is it?"

"Well." Feathers ruffled, Oglethorpe had to take a restorative gulp of brandy. "Among our other misfortunes, Governor Montiano has recently captured several of my clerks and aides-de-camp, men with detailed knowledge of our plans, capabilities, and the continuing broader operation of the war. We are preparing for a – well, never mind. Suffice it to say that the future strategy of the English Crown will be considerably jeopardized if Montiano succeeds in passing that intelligence to his overlords in Havana. In exchange for your agreement to work as my personal agent in this matter, tracking the Spaniard with the intelligence and taking whatever measures necessary to ensure that it is not received, I will. . . take your word for it that your family are productive and peaceable members of society. Is that clear enough for your tastes?"

Sam repressed a brief and unpleasant sensation that he knew exactly which Spaniard would be carrying the letter to Havana. "So you're what – asking me to put my inherited pirate skills to work in your interests? Shoot the messenger, as it were?"

"If that is what it takes, then it would, of course, be sanctioned by the state of war that exists between Great Britain and the Spanish empire. Not, of course, that I find the prospect tasteful. I am aware that murder remains a sin in the Anglican confession, and I would not ask you to commit it without due cause." Oglethorpe actually looked candidly at Sam for the first time in the conversation, which was nice enough of him that Sam decided against mentioning that his family wasn't much for church. "All I ask is that the letter with the intelligence does not reach Havana. And since you, as you note, have somewhat of a heritage with these acts, you can employ your own discretion as to what that involves."

"And I'm supposed to do this for free?"

"On the understanding that your family would be guaranteed their safety, yes."

Sam considered, tapping his fingers on his knee. He wanted to point out that guarantees of safety were not going to cover any bribes, fees of passage, food or lodging, or other expenses, and that the militiamen were, as noted, already several months in arrears of even their modest pay, which always seemed to be the first to go whenever the supply chain was in straits. Not too much in straits, though, given that Oglethorpe still had his brandy. Wouldn't want to deprive him of that, to be sure. "But you're still not expensing me for it?"

"I should not be surprised that the scion of pirates haggles like a fishwife." Oglethorpe pulled out another sheet of parchment, dipped his quill, signed it, and stamped it. "In that regard, well, this is for you. Letters of marque. It entitles you to take that which you require for your sustenance, under the auspices of your status as a servant to His Majesty, George II."

Sam grimaced. "You're making me a privateer, you mean."

"I _am_ hiring a pirate," Oglethorpe pointed out, with some asperity. "Not a priest."

This was, Sam supposed, rather flattering in its way, so that he wondered if he wanted to correct Oglethorpe's amusing but mistaken impression that he had been raised as a miniature buccaneer from the cradle, wrapped in the skull and crossbones as a baby blanket and taught his letters by chalking DEATH TO ENGLISH TYRANNY over and over on the slate. He in fact had no more real knowledge of the pirate life than any other nineteen-year-old lad with an overactive imagination, because his parents had always ensured that he never had to live that way. But he could not deny that he was curious. They had all experienced it, they had known it, they had bled and breathed it, and grateful as he was for his comfortable and prosperous childhood, he felt that he had rather missed the boat, in more ways than one. He was proud of what his family had been, even as he knew there was no place for them in this ever more modern world. And yet, he could not help but want his own taste. Just a little. Just that same breath of adventure, of freedom.

He hesitated, then took the letter. Not that he knew entirely what to do with it, but it couldn't hurt to keep it for now. "Am I going by myself?"

"An army company would attract attention, and I won't be able to spare men from our rearguard, given that Montiano and his negroes are likely to be breathing up it." Oglethorpe sighed. He himself was a fairly progressive man as such things went; it was on his express instigation that slavery had been banned in the new colony of Georgia, and he had cultivated genuinely good relationships with the local Indians, several of whom were here fighting for him. That did not mean, however, that he was inclined to view a hostile alliance of Spaniards and black men favorably. Slavery had been outlawed in Spanish Florida since 1728, granted in gratitude for them rising up to defeat an attempted British invasion, and since the issue of its continued trade lay at the heart of this war, Sam rather thought that despite any personal convictions as to its moral wrongness, Oglethorpe was still supporting it by fighting for the system that sustained it. "You may, however," the governor went on, "choose a traveling companion. Your mission will be dangerous, and it is best not to go entirely alone."

"Hunt," Sam said at once. Whatever was going to happen, he'd feel far safer with a friend from home at his back. "Nathaniel Hunt."

"Very well. If you think you can trust him, you'd best be on your way." Oglethorpe looked as if he knew that he was depriving Sam of a hearty meal and a good night's sleep, but time was of the essence. The Spanish agent might already have a head start. "Good luck, Mr. Jones."

* * *

 "Please," Nathaniel said as they trudged through the thigh-high salt grass, "tell me that you're not doing this to impress my sister."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Sam prodded gingerly ahead of him with his musket. There were all kinds of poisonous vipers around here – moccasins, copperheads, cottonmouths – and he'd seen a man bitten, have his leg swell up blue and bloated, then die in agony hours later. The sound of the camp had almost, but not quite, faded behind them, and as they had to get back to St. Augustine, determine if the courier had left yet, and avoid being killed all before sunrise, Sam was setting a brisk pace. "Besides, even if I was, fair's fair, isn't it? You're not going to tell me you don't have eyes for Geneva?"

Nathaniel was a tall, lanky redhead, which meant that when he blushed, it looked as if his entire head was afire. The fact that said blush was visible even by moonlight was testament to its ferocity. "Shut up."

"Aha." At least, Sam thought, Nathaniel could take comfort in the fact that he was far from alone in this affliction. Geneva Jones was twenty-four, a striking beauty (not that Sam himself was vested in this, as she was his older sister, that would just be bloody weird) and the present captain of the family ship, the _Rose,_ which had been a Navy sixth-rater in its former life before their mother commandeered it. Geneva had always demonstrated more of an aptitude and aspiration for sailing than Sam, who preferred to conduct his misadventures on land (the one trait in which he sensed that he might have disappointed his seafaring relations) and as such, had been the one prepared to inherit said vessel. Come to think of it, this mission also couldn't hurt as a chance to polish Sam's credentials as an old salt, or however that worked. "You do."

"I said, shut up." Nathaniel kept walking determinedly. "Besides, someone has to come along to be sure you don't break your fool neck."

"It'll be a good story," Sam said. "Have your uncle print it up in his paper. Or he can put it in the other one, _Poor Richard's Almanack._ I'm sure it would be very popular."

Nathaniel looked mildly horrified at this suggestion, as if his uncle Benjamin found out, it would assuredly mean that his mother, one of the other sixteen children of Josiah Franklin and his two wives, would find out as well. "I think I'd rather face the Spaniards."

"There, see, you've that going for you already." Sam stole another wary look from side to side, checked the grass once more for poisonous beasts (of whatever variety) and jumped the creek, before gesturing to Nathaniel to halt. "This shouldn't take long. Keep watch."

Nathaniel blinked, utterly baffled. "Keep watch? For what? We're not even out of the camp yet. Hate to break it to you, Jones, but that's one of our supply wagons just there, not a Spanish artillery position."

"I _know_ it's a supply wagon, you dolt." Sam cracked his knuckles. "I said, keep watch."

Bafflement remained the chief emotion on his friend's freckled countenance a moment longer, until it was replaced by horror. "Oh no. Oh, no. Sam, don't you – "

"I have a letter of marque, remember? And this is the hell of a lot easier to start with than some Spanish fortress or man-o-war bristling with guns. Besides, they haven't paid us anyway. Do you want your share or not?"

"Oh my god," Nathaniel said. "You are going to get us killed."

"Just keep quiet and let out a good yell if anyone comes this way." Sam checked that the sentries had passed, then limbered up the side of the wagon, untying the lashings and burrowing beneath the canvas like a determined weasel. He could still hear Nathaniel muttering imprecations to himself under his breath, clearly vastly regretting this decision not an hour into it, but, well, that was his misfortune. Sam rummaged around in the dimness, saw beady eyes and batted away the foot-long rat that was gnawing on the grain sack, and finally happened on one of the petty cash chests. The main strongboxes were kept in the governor's pavilion with the guards, but the supply wagons needed to have their own capital on hand to barter or purchase provisions for the army, and the drivers were not always terribly conscientious about taking it out every night – who would bother to steal it, in the middle of camp, when being caught would either get them short a hand or a noose around the neck? _Aye. Rhetorical question, Jones. The answer being you._

Sam took the ramrod from his musket, which he had brought into the wagon with him for this express purpose, and worked at the lock – not terribly complicated – until it gave way. He might not be a full-blown pirate, no, but growing up with them _had_ given him a black-market skill or two, and he opened the chest, grabbed one of the money sacks inside, gave it a good jingle to test that it was full, and then stuffed it into his jacket and bailed out of the wagon to the extremely judgmental stare of Nathaniel Obadiah Hunt. At least it was his, and not anyone else's, and Sam scrambled to his feet, brushing grass off his breeches. "Let's go."

Still shaking his head, Nathaniel shouldered his own musket and their rucksack of provisions, and they trotted at a healthy pace until the British camp had mostly disappeared behind them. St. Augustine lay dark on the horizon, the _Castillo de San Marcos_ bristling with fortified positions and torches burning along the walls. The Spanish were no doubt extremely vigilant as the possibility of a second English sneak attack during the night, and Sam and Nathaniel had to be very, very careful picking their way across the outlying island. It was still strewn with the remains of the bombardment earlier, broken trees and heaps of stones and here and there, unpleasantly, a staring corpse already starting to smell ripe from the heat. Some of them had supplies still with them, and might have had coin, but Sam already had what he needed, and he was no grave-robber. Leave that to the scavengers.

At last, they reached the bay, slipped through the mud flats left by the outgoing tide, and cautiously eyed up the ships in the harbor. All they really had to go on was that Governor Montiano would be sending his intelligence to Havana, so they could hitch a ride aboard one of the sloops – it shouldn't be too difficult, if Sam presented his commission from Oglethorpe. He thought vaguely of the fact that his family might wonder what had happened to him, if he did not return home with the rest of the retreating army. When tasked with a vital secret mission, you did not get a chance to ask if you could write to your mother first, but Sam hoped they wouldn't worry. Besides, any letter he gave to one of Oglethorpe's minions would provide them with an excellent chance to find out exactly where his family lived, the fact that his grandfather was not dead, and other such sensitive details. Finish this, and they'd be. . . well, Sam was not so naïve as to think that this would shield them from scrutiny forever. But still. This could matter.

He took a deep breath, hitched his pack up, and started to walk.

* * *

It was the dream that woke Emma, though once she opened her eyes and felt herself return to reality with a small gasp, she was not quite sure what it had been. It slipped quietly away on the tides of sleep and the stillness before sunrise, and she blinked hard, left with only a vague sense of unsettlement and unease. It faded, though, and she let herself sink back into the pillows, Killian's arm settled around her waist where he had draped it before they had fallen asleep. In the deep heat of a southern summer, neither of them saw much call to wear anything to bed, and much as Emma enjoyed being cocooned in amorous embrace with her dearest spouse, she was also rather too warm, and she lightly disentangled herself, settling his arm on the mattress and admiring the dark sweep of lashes on his cheek. He looked young in his sleep, he always had, despite the advancing streaks of silver that frosted his hair, the well-weathered lines that framed his eyes. At almost fifty-three – his birthday was in a few more weeks, on Saint Bartholomew's day at the end of August – he would have fallen under the militia conscription order as well, as men were not exempt from service until the age of sixty, but a one-handed man did not qualify as able-bodied, could not fire a musket or otherwise fight, and besides, it was possible that the Colony of Georgia did not want to clutch Captain Hook too closely to its bosom anyway. That past was kept quiet and private these days, and Emma did not think that the authorities were fully aware, but no sense in tempting fate. Besides. She was just as glad to keep him home.

That made her think yet again about Sam, whom she had not stopped worrying about since he had marched off with the rest of the men in January. At going on six months, this was the longest he had yet been away from home, and with the slow and piecemeal movement of news through a war zone, there was not necessarily any way to know that they would have been informed by now if he had died. The founding of Georgia as an organized colony, when previously it had been the vital buffer zone between the British Carolinas and Spanish Florida, was always destined to be a point of serious contention, and Emma could not help but resent that her family had once more been caught up in one of England's pointless, damaging, draining wars. Still. At least the rest of them were here, together. At least she had this.

She paused, looking down at Killian, then settled closer alongside him, deciding that the heat, given that the sun was not quite up, was not too onerous after all. She traced a finger down his chest (his magnificent fur was also rather silver in places) and then lower, opening her palm, as he made a deep, rumbling sound in his sleep, stirred, and she saw a crack of blue beneath those lashes, grinning at her. He arched his back, pressing himself into her hand. "Well, love. That's one way to wake up."

"Good morning." Emma leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth, wanting him, his weight and warmth and presence, to chase away whatever demons were lingering from the darkness. Her hair fell loose, the blonde gone white in a few sizeable places as well, as he reached up with his good hand to play with it, tucking it behind her ear. "Did I interrupt a good. . . dream?"

"Nothing comparable to the real thing." Killian shifted as she rolled on top of him, uttering another satisfied-sounding rumble as she palmed him. He wrapped his shortened arm around her waist, settling her into the grooves and lines and hollows of his body where she had learned to fit so well, and they passed an extremely pleasurable interlude with the minimum of talking. Then, when she had rolled off again, both of them enjoying the deep flush of climax spreading through them with the same steady glow of the rising sun, he said, "What is it, love?"

Emma supposed she shouldn't be surprised that he could, as ever, sense even the faintest tremors of disquiet in her soul. "Nothing." She circled his nipple with her finger. "I'm all right now."

Killian gave her one of his _Really, Swan?_ looks.

"Really." Emma had to laugh. "Just worrying about Sam again, that's all. I had a dream – I don't even remember if it was about him – but it felt like one of those. . . those motherly things. It's been hard on me, the not knowing. I'm ready for him to come home."

"You can't keep the lad close by forever," Killian said gently. "When I was nineteen – well, I'd just joined the Navy, so everything seemed possible to me. You're not the smartest of creatures when you're a boy of that age, so – whatever Sam's been doing, whatever he's gotten himself into, it's likely best we don't know, eh? Be far too stressful otherwise."

Emma buzzed a reluctant laugh, even as she couldn't rid herself of the faint, lingering thorn in her heart. Still, however, there were happier preoccupations on this front. "I don't suppose Geneva will be awake just yet. She was rather late arriving last night."

"Aye," Killian agreed, with the same doting look he had always worn when discussing the subject of his daughter, for all the twenty-four years of her life to date. Geneva had just returned from her trip to Boston, where Henry had remained with his wife Violet and their two children, Richard and Lucy. Henry had a respectable position as a reader of law and history at Harvard College, though he had been making noises about moving the family to Philadelphia and taking up with Nathaniel and Isabelle Hunt's uncle Benjamin and the newspapers, pamphlets, and publishing business he was profitably running there. The Hunts were longtime friends of the Swan-Jones family, also with their roots in Boston, and Emma hoped that Nathaniel, who had likewise gone to war, was at least trying to keep her son out of trouble. He seemed to have a far better grasp on what that actually entailed than Sam did. _He's too much like the rest of us._

At any rate, Geneva sailed fairly frequently between Boston and Savannah, keeping up the family tradition of female captains in her mother's stead, and she might have picked up something about the progress of the war on her peregrinations. Emma sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and went to pull on her shift and drawers, then her stays. "Give me a hand?"

"Very funny, Swan." Killian rolled his eyes tolerantly, though he had in fact become quite good at doing up his wife's corset with one hand; he did not always bother to put on the complicated brace for the hook if they were merely lounging around at home, and he tended to wear his false hand when they were going out. Savannah might be an opportune place for ex-pirates to settle, given the philanthropic considerations that had attended the colony's founding, but that did not equate to openly displaying it before everyone's faces.

Once Killian had laced the stays, not too tightly, Emma shrugged on a light lawn dress, and Killian himself pulled on a loose shirt and buttoned breeches, both of them leaving their feet bare as they padded downstairs and into the airy solarium that adjoined the house's kitchen. They did not keep servants, though they could certainly afford to do so; that would just have to go into the ledger as another item with which to shock the neighbors. Killian sat at the table as Emma filled the kettle and set it on for coffee, to which all the Colonies had become ragingly addicted, and set on a pot of porridge to warm. When it was burbling appealingly, she took it off, spooned it into two bowls, and took the honey pot as Killian passed it with a slightly pained look on his face. This was her taste in breakfast more than his, as Killian tended to insist on boiled mackerel, grapefruit, and other severe and bracing choices of morning meal. You could, and might have long since, taken the sailor out of the Navy, but etc etc.

They had eaten for a few minutes in amiable silence when the stairs creaked, and – clearly drawn by the scent of food – Geneva came shuffling in in her dressing gown, yawning and groggy. Nonetheless, both Killian and Emma quickly got to their feet to greet their daughter with a kiss, and Emma ladled out a third bowl of porridge, pouring coffee into an earthenware mug (she and Geneva liked it with a bit of cream and sugar, Killian insisted on quaffing it black as tar). "How was the voyage, sweetheart?"

"It was a bit of a bloody hassle, actually." Geneva shook her tousled black locks out of her face, sat down with her breakfast next to her father, and began to voraciously devour it. "The Spanish are crawling straight up the arse of any ship that seems remotely English, and I must have had to declare my goods ten times. Not to mention the looks those bastards give me, whenever I say that I'm the captain. I spent five hours arguing with the _guardas costas_ off Cape Hatteras."

Killian and Emma exchanged a look, as they themselves were too familiar with the _guardas costas,_ the Spanish patrol ships that had made pirate lives so unpleasant back in the day. This war, moreover, had ostensibly been started by one – when the master of the _guardas_ ship _La Isabela_ had seized and boarded a British brig, the _Rebecca,_ and cut off the ear of its captain, one Robert Jenkins. The incident had remained a source of insult, but only that, until the British government, looking for an excuse to declare war on Spain, had fanned it into evidently the most major outrage the country had ever suffered, anywhere. (Colorful legends that the severed appendage had been displayed before Parliament remained unverified.) "Off Cape Hatteras?" Emma repeated. "They're not supposed to be so far in English territory."

"Must have been my lucky day, then." Geneva gulped down another spoonful of porridge. "We all know that the real profit from the annual ship comes from all the contraband aboard it, so I suppose they were determined to ensure it wasn't me. I finally sent him packing, though."

"Aye, that's my lass." Killian looked enormously proud. The "annual ship" meant the one ship of trade goods a year that Britain was allowed to send to the Spanish colonies in the West Indies, as they were otherwise a closed market that only Spain was allowed to trade with. The Spanish colonists, however, were as eager for English luxury goods as their government was for them not to have them, and were willing to pay exorbitant prices for their acquisition. Hence, whichever captain was chosen for the annual ship must be barely able to hold the wheel, as his palms had been so well greased. Half of the smuggling in the Caribbean for the entire year must go through that ship, and was fenced profitably at its port of destination, so the _guardas costas_ must be even more overzealous in trying to catch it and prove a major success to Madrid. "While you were out, did you. . . hear anything of how things are going, in Florida?"

A slight shadow passed over Geneva's face, as she clearly knew they were asking for news of her brother. "Only rumors, but it didn't sound promising. Oglethorpe is besieging St. Augustine, has been since June, but whichever nobhead they have in command of the Navy fleet seems to be sleeping on the job. The sea blockade hasn't been effective. They might have to fall back."

Killian snorted, as even his long departure from the Navy would certainly not prevent him from judging it harshly on its failures. "Typical."

"Aye." Geneva scraped the bottom of her bowl and looked hopefully for a second serving, which Emma took it to provide. "Then again, what would you expect? I doubt the South Sea Company is actually giving them any money either."

"No," Killian said scathingly. "Seeing as that would detract from losing it in illicit insider trading and gaming the stock market. Likewise typical that twenty years after they crashed the economy the first time, they're given a kiss on the arse by Westminster and their very own war, isn't it?"

Geneva, who had been only four when the "South Sea Bubble" burst for the first time, ruining a number of common creditors who had been persuaded to invest at artificially skyrocketing stock prices in the promised opening of trade with the Spanish Indies (but not, of course, the wealthy shareholders who had conned them into it) raised an eyebrow. "You know you sound like a grumpy old man, Daddy, don't you?"

"I'm justified, lass," Killian said, with great dignity. "Well, if Oglethorpe _is_ retreating from Florida, that might mean your brother's coming home, but it's not necessarily good news for the rest of us. That means the Spaniards might be on the march, and if they make it to Savannah – "

The Swan-Joneses exchanged a look, as they all knew that what befell captured cities in wartime was rarely pleasant. Finally Geneva said, "We'll leave on the _Rose,_ we'll take Granny, Grandpa, and Great-Uncle Thomas with us. Go back to Boston, if we have to."

"Ah," Killian murmured. "So England can take another home from us."

There was a brief and unhappy silence, as nobody was eager to uproot from Savannah, where they had lived for fifteen years, and surely Miranda, James, and Thomas must be even less so. Still, that remained as yet a theoretical difficulty, happily, and Geneva drank the last of her coffee, then set the cup down. "On that note, I was actually planning to visit them today. I brought back some books for them. Did you want to come?"

"That sounds lovely." Emma started to rise to her feet. "I'll get the horses hitched up."

"No, Mother, I'll do it. Soon as I get dressed." Geneva pushed her back down. "Stay."

Raising an eyebrow, Emma did as instructed, as she had to consider that perhaps it would not be the worst thing in the world to consider hiring help. When Sam was home, he was saddled with all the chores that it was useful to have a teenage son on hand to accomplish, but with his extended absence, and the fact of Killian's limitations, that meant that most of the housework and general mucking about fell to Emma. Neither of them were getting any younger, and there were certainly any number of interested applicants. At least a maidservant and a footman, as they could likely get by with that, and she would treat them better than Leopold White had ultimately treated her. She would have to place an advertisement in the _Virginia Gazette,_ published in Williamsburg, as that was the chief newspaper serving the southern colonies. Gone were the days when all the Americas had only had the _Boston News-Letter,_ printed once weekly, to rely upon, as the trade was steadily growing – thanks in no small part to Ben Franklin, in fact. She'd look into it.

Geneva returned in fifteen minutes or so, washed and brushed, and went to hitch up their two horses to the buggy, which she enjoyed driving through Savannah's cobbled streets at decidedly unladylike speeds. Various outraged guardians of public virtue had registered their objections to Killian, which were promptly and thoroughly ignored, and several local ministers were more than slightly convinced of Geneva's status as a Cautionary Tale to all the impressionable young women in their parishes. Emma bit a grin as her daughter helped them up onto the running board, adjusted her hat to a fashionable angle, gathered the reins in gloved hands, and snapped them lightly over the horses' backs. They rolled out of the carriage house, and down the road.

It was a hot and clear late-summer morning in Savannah, the air already thick as soup, and the merchants were as interested in reclining in the shade as they were in hawking their wares. Geneva only attracted a few stares, as most of the locals were resignedly used to her by now, and they sped up once they had crossed town, taking the road (well, wandering country lane) that led out to the small house, built under huge old oaks, where Miranda Hamilton McGraw lived with her husbands, who were at least as married to each other as they were to her. Hearing the buggy's wheels crunching up, she opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, and Geneva waved to her. "Stay there, Granny," she called. "We'll come over."

Miranda did as instructed, though her face had lit up with joy to see her granddaughter, as the two of them were very close. She was not much for traveling these days, as she had never entirely recovered from her ordeal in Charlestown and the lasting damage it had left in her, and at the age of sixty-five, she was more than justified in a quiet retirement. When Geneva had unbuckled the harnesses and led the horses to the trough, she hurried up the garden walk to hug her grandmother (gently) and kiss her on the cheek. "I have a surprise for you."

"More than just this unexpected visit?" Miranda raised an eyebrow, turning so Emma could kiss her as well, and Killian nodded affectionately. "I didn't think you'd be back from Boston for another week at the least."

"Wind was good," Geneva said, with the casual competence of the experienced sailor. "Though the delays with the _guardas_ nearly wiped that out."

Miranda's brow furrowed. "They've gotten quite bold again, haven't they?"

"Don't worry, Granny, I still have both my ears," Geneva assured her, linking her arm through Miranda's, as Miranda took a better grip on her cane with the other hand, to escort her inside. With Killian and Emma following, they went through to the small kitchen at the back of the house, where James McGraw and Thomas Hamilton were reading the paper in their shirtsleeves. Flint was likewise in his late sixties, but tough and strong and weathered as a stump of ironwood, his hair gone mostly the rich, mellow white of redheads, though there were ginger streaks left here and there and in his beard. Strictly speaking, he hadn't been "Flint" for many years now, and while everyone was grateful for it, it still tended to be how Emma thought of him. Fonder, rather than the previous wariness and careful, always-contested alliance, but an older lion was still a dangerous one, and he more than certainly still had his claws. Even his life here in peaceful obscurity with Miranda and Thomas had not softened those edges entirely.

And yet, Flint was smiling as he stood up. "Well," he said, crossing the floor to clap Killian on the shoulder, let Emma kiss his scruffy cheek, and hug Geneva with one arm. "Thought I smelled trouble. Those bastards let you back into port then, Jenny?"

"Only with minimal bribery, aye," Geneva said dryly. She stepped past him to hug Thomas, who – although she and Sam would have happily called him grandpa as well – insisted that he did not want to take away from the family that James and Miranda had built in the years without him, and was content to be known as great-uncle. "I've a surprise for you."

With that, she took out a large parcel wrapped in brown paper, handed it over, and watched with barely concealed delight as her grandparents opened it. There was a leather-bound edition of the poems of Catullus, the same of the histories of Tacitus, a copy of _Gulliver's Travels_ by the novelist Swift, the newest _Poor Richard's Almanack,_ some tracts by the philosopher Locke, and several French books with risqué woodcuts. "This must have cost you a fortune," Miranda said, finally looking up from lovingly paging through each. "Are you sure you don't want us to – ?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Granny. It's a gift." Geneva shook her head firmly. "You know Henry's at Harvard, and he's thinking about moving to Philadelphia and taking up with Mr. Franklin. You'll have more books than you know what to do with."

"Gracious, you'll spoil us." Miranda's eyes shone, belying her protestations, as she squeezed Geneva's hand. "Well, what next for you, after all this industry? Surely a young lady as busy as you won't be sitting at home for long, much as we might enjoy your company while you are."

"Actually." Geneva's voice was the sort of carefully offhand tone that was used to impart potentially uncomfortable information, while trying to make it sound as ordinary as possible. "I was thinking about going to Nassau."

That caused everyone in the kitchen to sit up sharply and pay attention. Killian and Emma glanced at each other, as James, Thomas, and Miranda did likewise, a current running among all five of the adults. Thomas had never been there, and the other four had not been back since they had left. It was a bustling center of (mostly) lawful commerce these days, rather than a notorious outlaw haven, and they obviously could not stop Geneva going if she wanted to, but that would certainly take a few tries to swallow. "Nassau?" Emma said at last. "Why?"

"Uncle Charlie's there," Geneva pointed out, which was true. Emma's brother, Charles Swan, had stayed on New Providence Island and risen to a position of some significance in its politics. The pirates' old and sworn enemy, Woodes Rogers, had actually been reinstated to the office of governor after he was released from debtors' prison, though his second tenure was quite a bit less successful than the first, and he had died there in 1732. Upon the occasion of his decidedly unlamented demise, Charles had taken over as the acting governor of the island, holding the office for a few months, before he formed the strong opinion that such a career was not at all for him. He returned to his work with Max, the de facto mistress of the island anyway, to manage David and Mary Margaret Nolan's shipping and merchant concerns in the Bahamas, of which a portion of the considerable profits had been sent to Killian and Emma for years. And yet, none of them had ever quite felt up to returning. It felt like tempting fate, given everything that had happened to them there. Charlie had visited them in Boston and Savannah alike, but they had never returned the favor with Nassau. It remained too delicate.

"Aye," Emma said at last, slowly, seeing that her daughter was waiting for her to answer. "I can understand you might want to visit, and aye, Charlie would be happy to introduce you to the merchant guilds there. But it's. . . it's surely not where you mean to make a career?"

"One of you should be a pirate," Flint suggested. "Seeing as Samuel can't sail to save his life."

Miranda gave her second husband a deeply reproving look. "James."

"No, Grandpa, I don't mean to be a pirate." Nonetheless, Geneva had to bite her lip on a smile. "But I – I've wanted to go there for a while. I feel as if I should at least see the place."

"By yourself?" Thomas raised a grey-blonde eyebrow. "From what James and Miranda have told me, it's not the sort of place I'd think a young lady would feel comfortable venturing alone – it might be slightly more respectable these days, but a fresh coat of paint is scarcely about to fix all the holes in the walls, only hide them. Nobody would know me, and therefore I doubt I'd attract any singular attention as your chaperon. Permit me to come along."

Flint and Miranda both started to say something at this, then stopped. Surely Thomas must be just as curious about the life they had shared there for a decade without him, and with his long years of work on the plantation where he had been sent by his father, thus to expunge the scandal from the Hamilton family name without actually killing him, he was still reasonably spry and active. As he pointed out, it would attract no attention for an older gentleman to be traveling with his great-niece, and no matter if it had been a quarter century or not, there was no way Captain Flint could set foot on Nassau again without lighting the entire Caribbean afire with the news. The world presumed him dead several times over, which was not entirely inaccurate insofar as Captain Flint had long returned to the sea and only James McGraw remained, and it was that anonymity which was keeping him, his wife and husband, and the rest of their family safe. Nobody needed to look for a dead man, or think to try him for his crimes. Bringing him back to life might be more trouble than it was worth.

"Thomas," Miranda began at last. "Are you sure? Do you want to – I could go with both of you, if you thought that would – "

"You can't travel well," Thomas reminded her. "And I know you and James have not spent a single night apart since you found each other again. Stay here and look after each other as you did for so long, my dear ones. It's my pilgrimage to make, now. Assuming, of course, that Geneva would be willing to bring an old man along."

"Of course, Great-Uncle Thomas." Geneva seemed surprised that he would have to ask. "I'm not planning to be there long, just a fortnight or so. If you wanted more time – "

"No, no. A fortnight should be fine." Thomas smiled at her. "Likewise, I thought it was time that I visited. So then. That's settled?"

Flint and Miranda glanced at each other, their hands linking under the table, then nodded. Just as well, Emma knew that she and Killian could not prevent their daughter, a grown woman and captain of her own ship, from returning to the place where this had all begun, their home and their fortress and their battleground for many years. Still, Emma hoped it would go quickly, and that Charlie was correct when he insisted it was no different from any other bustling port city in the New World. She had carried a certain image of Nassau in her head for so long that it was a shock to think of her daughter going there, bringing the two worlds together again after their years of separation, until sometimes it seemed to have dwindled almost into a dream lost on waking. Like the one this morning, like that faint whisper of unease but nothing discernible or solid. Only shifting shadows, and countless ghosts.

"Very well, then," she said at last. "But please do be careful."

* * *

Geneva and Thomas left three mornings hence, once Geneva had had a chance to resupply the _Rose,_ be sure that her crew had been paid (they were too used to her schedule to complain that she was dragging them out of home and hearth and their wives or mistresses' beds after not even a week ashore, and she made sure the money was good enough that they didn't) and made at least reasonably certain that there was not a hurricane brewing up further out to sea. It wasn't a terribly long journey from Savannah to Nassau, and she had sailed to the Caribbean before, but it was still not one she cared to risk if the weather was going to be a pain in the hindquarters. Especially given how anxious her parents and grandparents already were about the enterprise, no matter how hard they tried to disguise it. She didn't mean to worry them, but she was also fully confident in her ability to handle herself, and her great-uncle Thomas, while he might not be one of the several pirate captains in the family, had learned from necessity how to defend himself. They would be fine. Her uncle Charlie would be there too. No worries at all.

Geneva was also aware that her family was especially sensitive about the prospect of storms, given how her godfather, her brother's namesake, had died. She had only met Sam Bellamy once, when she was far too young to remember, only hours after her birth on a remote strip of Caribbean sandbar, which was also where her grandparents had been married and made the fateful decision to sail for Charlestown and avenge the betrayal of their old friend, Peter Ashe. She had been taken away with Henry by their uncle Liam and aunt Regina, who lived in Paris these days, and who Geneva also did not remember, given that they had left France and returned to the Colonies when she was still less than a year old. She knew her father missed his older brother, as the Jones boys had never been separated in their lives until Killian's disgrace and downfall, his transformation into Hook, but Liam was likewise not much for traveling any more, wanted his sailing days to be behind him, and was haunted by the events of Charlestown in a different way. He had had to kill the bloodily infamous privateer and terrifying mercenary captain, Henry Jennings – also to protect Geneva and Henry, and which Henry remembered but would not talk about – and that memory, the cost of what it had taken to bring down the monster who had wreaked so much pain and havoc on their family, had left him never the same again.

Geneva had begun to mull the idea of suggesting to her parents that she take them to Paris, though it would certainly be the longest voyage she had ever attempted; she had sailed plenty in the Colonies and the Caribbean, but the Atlantic was a different proposition. Not that she thought she wasn't capable, and if worse came to worse, she would have both her father and mother, experienced captains in their own right, to help. But if she wanted to go to Nassau, she also wanted to go to France. Could not help but think of that Scottish folk ballad, and how oddly, poignantly appropriate it was for their scattered family. _The water is wide, I cannot get o'er. Neither have I the wings to fly. Give me a boat that can carry two, and both shall row, my love and I._ She wanted her father to see her uncle again, wanted to mend what still seemed so deep and raw and broken. _A ship there is and she sails the sea, she's loaded deep as deep can be. But not so deep as the love I'm in, I know not if I sink or swim._

Nonetheless, Geneva did her best to banish such melancholy preoccupations for their departure. Grandpa, Granny, Mother, and Daddy had all come to see them off, all with a flood of last-minute advice about Nassau. Despite their misgivings, she couldn't help but think that they all missed it, at least a little, though some of their suggestions were wiser than others. "Get into at least one fight," her grandfather said, _sotto voce,_ as he hugged her on the quay. "Don't tell your parents."

"Grandpa." Geneva raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm _not_ going to start a second war, you know."

"Pity. I think England deserves all the wars it can get." James McGraw smiled, not entirely reassuringly. "Jenny, you and Thomas look after each other. That place is not just a bit of quaint family history, you know. What Nassau did to me, to all of us. . . it can catch you off guard, if you're not prepared for it, and it can change you. You're smart, and you're strong, and you're hopefully more bloody sensible than we were, but still. Pay attention. Both of you."

"I will," Geneva promised, turning to kiss her grandmother and then hug both of her parents. They were putting a brave face on it, but they were still clearly struggling with letting her go again, when the questions of her brother's whereabouts remained outstanding, and she hoped she ran across the little twerp on the way, give him a good shake for making them worry. Sam Jones had a very high sense of adventure and a very low sense of self-preservation, which could make for a combustible combination.

Farewells completed, as Thomas kissed Miranda, hugged James, and promised Killian and Emma that he would likewise look after their daughter, the travelers went aboard the _Rose,_ and Geneva gave orders for them to make ready to depart. She and Thomas stood on the deck, waving to their family as the _Rose_ began to take the wind, until they were quickly dwindling small specks. Geneva ensured that everything was in order, said one more. quiet prayer under her breath, and went to take her turn at the helm. When she looked back again, Savannah had vanished astern, there was only the sea behind her and before her, and all the world was sunlight.


	2. II

Sam awoke to the strong smell of brine and fish, the sound of a loud argument in what he thought might be Portuguese, and a dog licking his face, which made him curse and push it away. He understood the principle of having a cat on board ship; they kept the rats down, tended to themselves, and stayed out of the crew's way, but a dog must eat as much as a sailor while doing none of the work (what did it do, bark at dolphins?) This seemed a seriously questionable decision on the part of his current vessel, but as the theme of his adventures to date appeared to be shaping up, he had not been left with a great deal of choice. He had approached one of the tender boats on the beach, thinking that he could pay for it to take him out to one of the Navy frigates in the harbor. He had reckoned without the – in hindsight, blindingly and idiotically obvious – fact that all the small craft ashore were _Spanish,_ and had absolutely no interest in transporting this pair of gormless English striplings anywhere. So in sum, to start off Sam's vital interception mission on which the very future of the war might hang, he had strolled up and volunteered himself to be abducted. Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful. If Nathaniel –

At that, Sam's eyes flew open, even as his skull was still aching from the smart blow that one of the Portuguese pricks had administered to the back of it. Trying to avoid moving too fast, he glanced around cautiously, forced to console himself with the fact that at least Nathaniel had not thought of this beforehand either – fine pair of secret agents they made, the both of them. As it happened, the dog was now licking Nathaniel instead, slumped against a coil of rope across the way, and after a few more moments of the mangy mutt's devoted attentions, his eyelids fluttered. He groaned, opened them, stared at Sam with the maximum amount of umbrage it was possible to convey in a facial expression, started to say something, then bit his tongue.

Having reassured himself that he had not – yet – gotten his friend killed, Sam edged slowly toward the sound of the argument from above. The one possibility he could see was that he was increasingly certain that they were indeed Portuguese, and not Spanish. While somewhat of an afterthought in the scheme of things, not quite to the class of the heavyweights England, Spain, and France, Portugal did hold the vast colony of Brazil and other possessions in the Indies and the Main, and while they more or less cooperated and allied with Spain in doing this, their allegiance to Madrid would not be guaranteed. That, now that Sam thought about it, was likely the cause for the argument. Half of the crew must want to hand them over to the _guardas costas_ right now, and pocket a nice reward for their trouble. The other half (well, hopefully it was at least a half) must favor keeping them around, seeing if there was some further use to them, maybe even make Spain pay handsomely for the service of returning them.

It occurred to Sam that if so, he could possibly still salvage this. Convince them that he was important enough to be taken to Havana directly, as that was, after all, where he was trying to go. It might be harder if none of them spoke English, and how exactly Sam would pull this off without actually dying remained a sticking point, but that was a problem for later. As long as he was right about all this speculation as to their disagreement. If they were just squabbling about whether to drown them or shoot them, that, well, that lengthened the odds a bit.

At that, Sam pawed at his jacket, and discovered to his astonishment that the sack of money was still there. Evidently their captors had not even bothered to search them before knocking them over the head, confiscating their weapons, and tossing them in this fish-smelling predicament, and that was a morbidly hopeful idea. It might mean that the kidnappers were as thoroughly amateur as the kidnapped, and while they would still have the money if they wanted it – Sam could obviously not stop a dozen brawny sorts from helping themselves – its presence might at least convince them that there was more where that came from, or that he was rich enough to fetch a good ransom. And while Sam did not speak Portuguese, he could just barely scrape along in Spanish, and they would have at least one man who knew that. He was feeling more hopeful than he had five minutes ago, despite still being summarily abducted and held belowdecks of an enemy vessel with a superfluous dog and a deeply unimpressed friend. Now they were getting somewhere.

Just then, the ladder creaked, and with a look at Nathaniel imploring him to trust him despite all good reason to the contrary, Sam sat up straighter. The next instant, several pairs of feet descended into the dimness – this was a small ketch, with only one deck below the main and a crammed hold intended for a few hammocks and stowing cargo. As their owners came into sight, half a dozen bearded faces regarded the boys with deep suspicion. They seemed surprised that they had come to (perhaps they hadn't hit them hard enough) and one of them called sharply to the dog, which sat where it was and whined. Sam felt a brief and unexpected affection for the fleabag, and when the silence turned excruciating, shrugged and took it upon himself to get on with whatever was about to happen. _"Hola,"_ he said, in a friendly voice. _"Me llamo Samuel."_

There were snorts and a few startled looks, but nobody clocked him a new one, so Sam took that as a good sign. _"Mi amigo, Nathaniel._ _Estamos_ _–_ ah, what's the fucking word – deserters. Wait – _somos? Somos desertores._ From _del campamento Inglés. Yo tengo – inteligencia? Inteligencia importante._ For _el gobernador._ _En Cuba. Havana."_

He held his breath, hoping that this was not the most obvious of all ploys in the history of attempted neck-saving, though this lot did not look like candidates for the famed All Souls exam in Oxford (which Sam had briefly aspired to, before realizing that it would involve far more of the Latin master than anyone needed in their life). When there was still no answer, he stoutly plowed on. "Havana. _Necessito_ to go to Havana. _Dinero. Tengo mucho – muchas? – dinero."_

As he had hoped, that got their attention immediately. He pulled out the money sack, wincing at the possibility of losing it less than forty-eight hours into the venture, but if it got them to Havana, it would be a very wise investment. Glances were exchanged among the crew, someone stepped forward and yanked it out of his hand, and there was a murmur as they opened it, saw it was real silver – and then remembered one small fact, stopped, and scowled heavily. It was of course English currency, and that would do them no good in any of their usual ports of call, as they couldn't spend it and they couldn't trade it without someone getting suspicious as to where they had come by so much of it. The man who had taken the bag, coming to this conclusion, flung it on the boards with a curse, sending coins rolling in every direction, and started toward Sam with what absolutely sounded like the Portuguese version of "Get him, lads!" In that moment, Sam could only think of one thing, despite its high likelihood of backfiring in any number of spectacular ways. No time for another.

"FLINT!" he yelled. _"Mi abuelo. C_ _a_ _pitán_ _Flint!"_

That, at last, caught them short in a way that not even the money had done. Everyone across the Caribbean, regardless of nationality, knew who Flint was – and more importantly, what he had left behind. Half the £87,000, or 120,000 pieces of eight, that Charles Vane and Henry Jennings had stolen from the Spanish salvage camp in 1715 had been lost with the wreck of the _Walrus,_ Flint's ship, on the fabled pirate hideout of Skeleton Island, and he had also buried another chest somewhere ashore. (The other half, aboard the _Queen Anne's Revenge,_ had been dispersed and spent in various avenues long ago.) Rumors had long swirled about the feasibility of retrieving such a legendary stash, whether it had actually sunk or might be trapped in the ship's decaying hulk, but had been hindered by the fact that nobody knew where Skeleton Island actually was. The remaining charts had been lost with the _Walrus,_ if Flint remembered the exact bearings he wasn't saying, and besides, everyone believed that he was dead. The Spanish had never stopped brooding on the insult and their desire to recoup their lost loot, and the tale of the treasure had taken on a life of its own. _If_ Sam could possibly lead anyone to it, the Portuguese could either charge a huge price to hand him over, or take advantage of it themselves. Win-bloody-win.

There was a very long silence. Then the one who looked like the mate said, in heavily accented English, "Captain Flint – dead."

"Aye, he is." Sam wasn't so desperate to save his own neck as to sell out his grandfather, but now that he'd made the ploy, he couldn't back down. "But I told you I have intelligence for Havana, didn't I? You want to risk telling Güemes that you had the way to reclaim the lost treasure in your hands, and let me slip through?"

The mate squinted at him, not understanding all of this, so Sam sighed deeply and was once more obligated to patch it into his terrible Spanish. The gist of it, however, was that Don Juan Francisco de Güemes y Horcasitas, Count of Revillagigedo, the captain-general of Cuba and governor of Havana, would be extremely displeased if they did not bring Sam to him straightaway, and if that lost treasure _was_ recovered, surely there would be a generous cut of it for them. Or if they wanted, they could just die poor and stupid. No skin off his back.

There was much frowning, more muttering, and a few dangerous looks at Sam, but the end result was that someone was finally dispatched to fetch the captain. He spoke better English, and introduced himself as João da Souza, a bearded man with a somewhat misleadingly genial air; he might slap your back and drink with you, but was clearly not about to brook any challenges to his command or actually consider you a friend. Sam had gotten adept at quickly reading people, and when da Souza pressed for details, merely repeated his earlier insistence that Flint was his grandfather and this was an unmissable business opportunity. Surely this couldn't be a terribly profitable job, slaving on this rinkidink tender boat to sell to the Spaniards at ridiculously undercut prices. Money. Just think of it. Lots and lots of money.

Da Souza clearly wanted to believe him, for obvious reasons, but not without proof. "How do I know," he asked at last, "that Flint is your grandfather? You are a very bad pirate."

Sam winced. "I'm a wonderful pirate, actually. If you give me a chance."

"Yes?" Da Souza tossed a complicated twist of rope at him. "What is that?"

"That is. . ." Sam considered the object in question with all the accumulated wisdom of his family's legendary seafaring exploits and specialized knowledge of the most arcane difficulties in the owning and operation of sailing ships. "That is definitely a knot."

Someone snorted audibly. "You cannot be of his line."

"My mother's his adopted daughter," Sam said defensively. "Him and his wife. They're – were – my grandparents. So – "

Da Souza's eyes sharpened, and Sam struggled not to let his expression change. He was fairly sure the captain had caught that brief slippage into present tense, the hint that his grandfather might not be quite as dead as he was trying to insist. It was thus less than entirely reassuring when the captain smiled. "Havana. Yes. Güemes, we will take you to him."

"Er, thanks." Belatedly, Sam supposed that his gaffe in fact might not have been the worst thing in the world – sailing in aboard a Royal Navy ship would have put all of Cuba on alert and made it impossible for him to conduct his search for Montiano's agent in private, if he wasn't arrested the moment he set foot ashore. Arriving anonymously aboard a humble Portuguese supply tender would attract no notice whatsoever, and if da Souza had been safely assured of mythical riches, he might even go to the bother of actively trying to keep Sam alive long enough to reach the governor. And if Sam could find out what exactly the intelligence was – Oglethorpe had not told him that, after all, just that he needed to intercept it – he could decide what to do with it, stopping it or otherwise. It was somewhat of a surprise to hear himself thinking so calculatingly about this, actively planning where it might most benefit, but. . . prior evidence all aside, he wasn't a complete idiot. He knew this was dangerous. He had to keep his eyes open.

Sam and da Souza spat in their palms and shook hands on their agreement, Nathaniel let out a sagging breath of relief (he had certainly seen Sam talk them out of tight corners before, but that might have been the tightest) and Sam was given to wonder if, now that they were such mates, the crew might be induced to feed them. He had been constantly hungry since he left home, as subsisting on less-than-robust army rations was about the worst privation in the world for a nineteen-year-old boy (as he, like the rest of his ilk, could eat his parents out of house and home while remaining the exact dimensions of a beanpole). Asking this question finally landed him and Nathaniel with some hardtack and a weazened orange apiece. Evidently, while they may certainly die in the course of this, it would not be from scurvy. Dad would approve.

"I can't believe you did that," Nathaniel muttered, as they gnawed the peelings off. The crew had gone back to the deck to make ready to sail, and they could feel the ship starting to gain speed beneath them. "Next time, maybe we don't get knocked out first?"

"Aye, maybe." Sam chewed experimentally on the hardtack, hoping that there would not be a surprise weevil experience (that had happened to him when he was eight, which he supposed might be part of his dislike of sailing). He did not want to fall into all his successes in such an arse-backward fashion, but it was still preferable to failure. "It worked, though, didn't it?"

"That was luck," Nathaniel pointed out, cruelly but accurately. "Besides, I don't trust da Souza. He'll try to coax you to tell him the bearings to Skeleton Island before we ever get to Havana, then chuck us overboard if you can't tell him. And I know you don't know those."

"Keep your voice down, will you?" Sam looked around edgily. He didn't know who else on the crew spoke any English, and did not want to risk them finding out. He was also aware that this bluff only ran any chance of success if da Souza actually had an interest in bringing them to Cuba and assisting the Spanish war effort, as otherwise, he could indeed just throw the boys into the ocean without anyone ever knowing they had been there. He wouldn't as long as the riches were on the table, but as soon as they weren't, well. . .

There was, however, not exactly much either of them could do at the moment, and they settled uneasily by the bulkhead, heads still aching, as the tender boat made it further out to sea. Sam risked a peek through the anchor eyelet, clambering through the heaps of rope and sacks in the bow, to see that they were almost out of sight of land, as da Souza must have known a back route out of the harbor away from the Royal Navy blockade – probably the same one they had used to smuggle supplies through to St. Augustine in the first place. It wasn't that long of a trip to Havana if the wind cooperated. He wasn't going to have a lot of bloody time to come up with a plan, and the Spanish agent could be well ahead of him anyway. If so. . .

And yet, despite the admittedly uneven start to his venture, and the very real risks that remained to his family if he failed, Sam couldn't help but enjoy himself, more than a little. Sure, he'd probably die, but he was young enough to feel immortal, invincible, and this would be enough of a ripping good yarn that he'd never have to sit tongue-tied at another family dinner while the rest of them swapped tall tales and sailing stories. He was deeply proud of being Killian Jones and Emma Swan's son, James Flint and Miranda Barlow's grandson, Sam Bellamy's godson, and even Geneva Jones' brother (though he was sure he couldn't actually tell her that). He knew they loved him regardless, but he did not want to be the hatchmark, the asterisk, on the list of pirate legends – the runt of the litter, the black sheep. He wanted to be enough.

After a moment, Sam blew out a breath and turned away. He was still hungry, though he didn't think any more food would be forthcoming, and besides, he had to see if he could scrounge up any of his coins from where they had rolled into dark corners. Da Souza and his crew might not be impressed with English money, but Don Juan Francisco de Güemes might, and Sam had plenty of uses for it otherwise. He was tired, but he wasn't sure he'd sleep. He needed to think.

 _No comments on how well that has gone before._ Sam muttered a brief prayer to Saint Jude, just because it couldn't hurt, and went off to get started.

* * *

At least from the harbor, Nassau Town, New Providence Island did not look like the formidable stronghold of _hostis humani generis,_ enemies of all mankind, as the laws and tracts of all the colonial empires had – unsurprisingly – declared the pirates' republic at the height of its influence. There were no ships flying the black flag, no roving gangs of wastrels, and, perhaps most disappointingly, no piles of treasure lying around on the beach. One John Tinker had been named the new governor in 1738, but due to the demands of the war and his concerns elsewhere, he had not yet bothered to take up residence, and nobody appeared to be missing him very much. Indeed it looked, exactly as promised, quite normal, an ordinary hub of lawful commerce. The fort on the headland remained only half-rebuilt, as Robert Gold had destroyed its predecessor during the last battle, and the Union Jack was flapping merrily overhead, which surely would have disgusted Geneva's relations if they were present to observe. Indeed, while she hadn't expected to arrive in some preserved bit of pirate Utopia, with rum and brawling and salty wenches and whatever else they liked, it was somewhat of a letdown. Like going to find a prince, and meeting an accountant.

Still, she did not intend to let an underwhelming first impression deter her from a closer acquaintance. She turned away, ordered her crew to put down anchor, and prepared to go ashore. It had been an uneventful voyage from Savannah, though she had veered well out to sea to avoid Spanish ships around Florida, and the mercury was holding steady, though that could never be trusted for long in the dog days of summer.

"It looks quite. . . benign," her great-uncle said. "I suppose I had rather a different idea of it."

Geneva had to laugh. "Aye, I was just thinking the same. Though I'm sure there is more to it than meets the eye. We might end up wishing it was as boring as it seemed."

With that, she helped Thomas down into the boat, along with a few of her crew members, and took one of the sets of oars, pulling them toward the quays. No sooner had they bumped against the boards and disembarked, however, when a small and obnoxious individual in an excessively powdered peruke wig rushed up and thrust a ledger under Thomas' nose, clearly taking him for the master of the arriving vessel. "Berthing fee is a shilling," he announced. "There is the docking register and the cargo tariff to settle as well, sir, so if you would step to my office – "

"I'm not the captain." Thomas looked as if he was trying very hard not to laugh. "That would be my niece here."

" _You?"_ The man goggled at Geneva with irritating, if not unexpected, skepticism. "Are you – managing it in your father's stead or something of the sort, miss?"

"No," Geneva said. "I'm Captain Geneva Jones and that's the _Rose,_ my own ship. As for your ludicrous charges, it seems as if pirates of one bloody sort have just been exchanged for another, doesn't it? Good to know Nassau is still a den of bald-faced thieves."

"We are not thieves." The port factor inflated territorially. "We charge the dues and customs as appointed by the merchant guilds and trading boards of His Majesty's West Indian territories. Entirely lawful, I do assure you. So if you – "

Geneva couldn't help but flinching at the mention of New Providence being firmly back under British stewardship, no matter how peaceably it had worked out. She hadn't expected it to affect her, since it was a fight she had never been part of except for the briefest imaginable time as a very newborn infant, but it still landed in some uncomfortable ancestral heart of her. Thomas – whose own experience of English law had been far from benevolent, even if not that of the open piracy and rebellion of his spouses – had an odd look on his face as well. Exiled to a work camp in the Colonies after his confinement in an asylum, announced to the world that he was dead, disinherited and bereft of his family name, title, and home and everything he had ever worked for in a respectable career as a peer of the House of Lords and the promising scion of a well-established family. He might be happily reunited with James and Miranda these days, and all of them had struggled to finally put the past to rest, but the wounds remained.

Still, however, Geneva – while she might have her grandfather's advice in mind about getting into at least one fight while she was here – did not see it necessary to start off by assaulting the port factor and being shut promptly into jail. So she went to his office, paid the charges, signed the docking register, and returned to where Thomas was waiting for her in the shade. "Well," she said, with an annoyed huff. "Being hit up for English taxes the instant we land? I suppose Nassau has changed after all."

"Indeed." Thomas' cheek twitched again, but he offered her his arm, which Geneva took, and they started up toward the streets, her crew having hastened ahead in apparent eagerness to see if _everything_ was civilized these days, or the legendary houses of booze, bawd, and bad decisions still remained for public inspection. She'd box their ears if they gambled away all their wages, or got themselves into an entanglement from which she would be obliged to extricate them. She could not blame them for curiosity, as it was after all a considerable part of the reason she herself had come here, but still.

"You're very like him," Thomas said unexpectedly, as Geneva pulled her skirts up with her free hand to avoid the muck – she captained a ship and managed her own trading business and took advantage of numerous other pursuits normally accorded to firstborn sons, but she still liked to wear dresses and to do her hair fashionably and to buy jewelry and trim her sleeves with lace. "Your grandfather, that is. And your grandmother. I see so much of both James and Miranda in you. I know you're not theirs by blood, but it is easy to forget."

"It's never been any different for us, you know." Geneva glanced at him sidelong. "I didn't meet them – and you – until I was eight, but Mother and Daddy always told us about you. It didn't feel like meeting strangers when I saw you at last. Just like family who had been away for a long time and finally came back."

"I remember." Thomas laughed, even as the half-sweet, half-painful shadow of memory crossed his face: the first time that Killian and Emma had seen Miranda and Flint in years, since losing them in Charlestown and Skeleton Island, respectively, and believing them dead. The introduction of them both to Thomas, and Flint and Miranda meeting all their grandchildren for the first time, as Henry, Geneva, and Sam had been fully willing to accept this in their stride and not sure why the adults were in tears. Geneva's own recollection was of being relieved that the pirate they had hanged in the Savannah square was not actually her grandfather, hugging her grandmother for the first time as Miranda shook and shook, and being distracted with biscuits and put to bed while the adults sat up all night on the veranda. The Swan-Joneses had moved from Boston the next year, when Henry had taken his degree from Harvard, to be closer to them, to let Geneva and Sam grow up with the rest of their family, not wanting to miss any more time, and she remained deeply grateful for it.

They reached the top of the steep, cobbled street, lined with swinging signs and painted storefronts, food stands and scriveners, taverns and trading posts and other familiar features of an ordinary market town. If it was somewhat more grimy in places, it was usually down a back alley, and nobody was resorting to fisticuffs (at least not in the open). Palm trees shaded the handsomely colonnaded plaza before the governor's mansion, which in the absence of the actual governor being in residence was evidently used as the city hall anyway, and the rich golden light slanted as thick as honey on canvas awnings and red-shingled roofs. It was. . . pretty, with a sense of being well lived in, comfortable as an old shawl or a favorite dress. Not wild, not anymore. Whether or not that had been vital to its character before, and this could only be a pale and cheap copy, Geneva could not say. Still, though. She liked it.

They went up the broad marble steps of the mansion, enquired after the whereabouts of Charles Swan, and were sent to a nearby half-timbered townhouse with a brass plaque on the door. They rang the bell, were shown in by a servant, and in a few more minutes, Geneva's uncle – fair and blonde and retaining some of his old good looks, though his hairline had receded and his waistline had expanded – was effusively greeting them. "I had no idea you were coming to Nassau, you should have written! I don't suppose your mum and dad. . .?"

"No, just me and Uncle Thomas." Geneva gestured to him, as the men shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. "We weren't intending to be here long, a fortnight or so, and we won't impose if you – "

"Nonsense," Charles said heartily. "There's plenty of room, you're welcome to stay as long as you like. None of you have ever visited me before, I should mark the occasion. Indeed, business is booming, and if you're at all interested in remaining longer, my dear, I'm currently in the market for a new ship and captain. War always tends to be good for our bottom line, so there's that – although there's no guaranteeing the bloody Spanish wouldn't ransack you. Come to think of it, I wouldn't fancy explaining that to my sister, but the offer stands."

"Ah – thank you, but I think I'm sorted." With that, Geneva was induced to be shown upstairs by the maid, taking one room at the end of the hall as Thomas took another, and once she had washed and freshened up from the voyage, returned downstairs to the sitting room to visit. She, Thomas, and Charles passed a pleasant afternoon drinking tea and chatting and catching up with the news, and as dusk began to fall, Charles announced that he'd take them to his favorite supper club. No better way to really meet the locals.

Geneva, who had begun to suspect that her uncle was trying to butter her up to join the family business regardless of whatever she had politely refused earlier, agreed, rather amusedly, and fetched her hat and gloves. The evening was still very warm as they stepped out, the shadows ink-black among the waving palms and the sun a spill of claret wine in the west. Crickets shirred in the distance, torches and lanterns lit among the narrow wynds, and she and Thomas followed Charles to an appealing establishment on the harbor side of the city, where they opened the door and entered a lowlit, busy common room. Charles was evidently a regular, as he was greeted by name and seated promptly, and as they were waiting for their meal, Geneva was left to conclude that the whole thing had thus far been like a pleasant holiday. She was quite sure it had not been like this when her parents and grandparents had lived here, and briefly wondered if this could be considered any sort of authentic experience. Unless she was going to just –

"Mr. Swan?"

The table looked up with a start to see a man who seemed faintly, intangibly familiar, though for the life of her, Geneva could not have said why. He was sunburned and rough-weathered, with long black hair streaked with grey, a scraggly beard, an embroidered jacket, and – most noteworthy – a missing leg, though he wore a leather and iron replacement that allowed him to stump along with a crutch, which he laid against the table. His face was outwardly friendly, but his blue eyes were cool and shrewd, the face of a man who held the cards and shuffled the deck as he pleased. Spotting the empty chair next to Thomas, he took it without asking for permission, and smiled, once again in a friendly fashion, but with a clear sense that he was not about to be sent away without an answer. "Good evening. I regret having to interrupt you with company."

"I." Charles looked rather like a schoolchild who had stood up to recite before the class and forgotten his lines. "Mr. Silver. Good evening to you too."

At that, Thomas twitched slightly, a reaction which the newcomer – clearly not a man who missed much – caught out of the corner of his eye. He turned to them. "Friends of Charles?"

"Family. This is his niece, Geneva, and I'm her great-uncle, Thomas."

Likewise, a very strange expression crossed the man's – Mr. Silver's, as it evidently was – face. Something shock and curiosity and wonder and vindication and suspicion and fascination all at once, like the unearthing of a mysterious skeleton or fabled treasure from the ground where it had lain in secret for years, and was only now coming to life again. "Correct me if I presume," he said slowly. "But you wouldn't be – you could not possibly be – Thomas _Hamilton?"_

"Do you know me, sir?" Thomas was startled and wary, as any sudden arrivals with apparent familiarity of his past were far from reassuring. "Have we met – ?"

"We have not. You are him, then?"

"I am. Can I be of service?" The words were polite, but the tone was cool.

Silver did not answer immediately, continuing to regard him with an interest so intent as to nearly be rude. He realized it and glanced away, but could not help but looking back, as if Thomas was a museum exhibit or rare curio on which he intended to compose a lengthy treatise. At last he said, "I was well acquainted with a particular friend of yours, in the past. If he's still alive – if you've crossed paths again – then I don't suppose he's mentioned me?"

" _You're – "_ Just then it clicked, for Thomas at least, even as Geneva and Charles remained utterly baffled. "You're him. John Silver, Long John Silver?"

"I've been called that in the past, yes. Even at times in the present." Silver shrugged. "Well, then. This is – I scarcely know if _serendipitous_ is enough of a word. And a great-niece?" He glanced back at Geneva. "No, wait. You're theirs, aren't you. Hook and Swan's daughter?"

"Killian and Emma Jones are my parents, yes." It was an unsettling feeling to be sitting across from someone who clearly knew far more about you than you did about them, and who might put that information to work in any number of ways. Geneva thought she might recall her grandfather mentioning someone named Silver, but he never said much about his old life, not to her and Henry and Sam. Kept it locked away, the old and wrathful mantle of Flint that he could never shed entirely, but which he had grown to master to the point that he could leave it where it lay, and just be James McGraw to his family. "You – you must have served on my grandfather's crew. On the _Walrus."_

"Your grandfather?" That seemed to intrigue Silver nearly as much as Thomas. "Captain Flint bouncing fat babies on his knee, letting them pull his beard and feeding them bonbons? I can't see it."

"Is it your concern?" Geneva did not feel obliged to disclose her personal history to this man, somehow both old friend and unsettling stranger, and she rather wished he would be on his way. "Do you go around bothering all the relatives of old business partners at supper, or just us?"

"Business partners?" Silver seemed amused. "That's one word for it. I was his quartermaster, yes, so I suppose it is not entirely inaccurate. But as it happened, I was looking for your uncle. Charles, I have a venture, and I need a ship."

"Most of my ships are abroad." Charles fidgeted. "Indeed, all of them. I am grateful for your assistance in the past, of course, but I don't think I can – "

"More than assistance, wasn't it? I daresay the Nolan enterprise on Nassau would never have gotten off the ground if Madi and I had not extensively facilitated it. There were also repeated loans on favorable terms of repayment, when your own difficulties cut into the profit margins, and introduction to those men who knew more about the Indies and the Caribbean and the general merchant business than you did. You have done well with sustaining the momentum once it was begun, certainly, but starting it? No."

Charles, who had been about to take a sip of wine, choked and put it down, as Geneva glanced accusingly at her uncle. She was not about to say that he was openly trying to take advantage of her unexpected arrival, but this did explain quite a bit about both the warmth of his reaction and his determination to get her to stay, if Silver was holding him over a barrel for some favor that he either had to offer up, or watch his life become very difficult as a result. Thomas seemed to have come to the same conclusion, though his expression was very wry. "Well," he said. "You are just as James described you."

"Ah, so the two of you have been reunited. That is. . . touching."

"I don't believe you have a sentimental bone in your body, Mr. Silver."

Silver smiled again, but with less humor. "We will have to agree to disagree about that, then. But given the arrival of you and your niece, surely there must be at least one ship at hand?"

"Aye," Charles said uncomfortably. "Hers, the _Rose,_ but – "

"The _Rose?"_ Silver looked as if he could barely believe his luck. "The ship which began her life as a Royal Navy sixth-rater, formerly under the command of Woodes Rogers himself, which – thanks to my own and extensive efforts – was captured and placed under the pirate flag on Skeleton Island? Which your mother then took over as captain, Miss Jones, and seems to have passed along to you? To speak of fortunate and fitting turns of fate, seeing as you owe ultimate possession of that ship to me, and given this venture's own association with the place where that happened, that is as close as a clear-cut sign from heaven as any of us can ever believe in."

"What venture?" Charles demanded, agitated. "What are you talking about?"

"The reason Rogers found us on Skeleton Island," Silver said, "was because of the betrayal of another of our crewmates. Billy Bones went to Rogers and gave us up, in exchange for them both pursuing their mutual vendetta against Flint. So far as everyone knew, Flint killed Billy in their last fight there. But it has come to my attention that, rather like Flint himself, perhaps that death was not so final after all. That Bones is still alive, has emerged from whatever obscurity he has lurked in for the past twenty-five years, and may have taken ship to England to provide the coordinates and intelligence to reach Skeleton Island, and the Spanish treasure that remains lost there. Such an action would, needless to say, sharply swing the entire balance of the war, and to who knows what end. Do you follow?"

Geneva, Thomas, and Charles opened and shut their mouths in unison like a trio of goldfish, while Silver seemed gratified by the effect, but not enough to rest on his laurels. Geneva herself knew that Billy Bones had been a friend of her mother's, at least before his betrayal of the pirates to the English crown, but everyone had likewise considered him to be dead, the loser of his final face-off with Flint, fallen into the water and drowned or stabbed or shot. Finally she said, "Why would Bones give up the location of Skeleton Island to the English now, even if he did survive? Whatever old quarrel he had with any of you, with my grandfather, it was years ago. Why just emerge from hiding and rekindle the feud? What would he have to gain from it?"

"Why, indeed?" Silver looked pleased. "Billy was – is – an utterly stubborn, blockheaded, self-righteous blonde bastard, but he wasn't stupid. Nor was he overly burdened with a sense of loyalty to England. He was kidnapped by the press-gangs as a child, as he was out selling pamphlets for his parents – political activists, printers, the exact sort of thing that His Majesty does not want upsetting the apple-cart among his subjects. So if he is offering intelligence on Skeleton Island to the English authorities, he wants something in return for it. And since you've just confirmed that Flint is still alive, living out his days in happy retirement with his loved ones and family, perhaps that explains quite a large part of his motivation."

"My grandfather has no interest in returning to the pirate life," Geneva said, feeling slightly panicky. "Even if Bones learned that he was alive, he wouldn't decide to just – "

"Would he?" Silver sounded wry, almost sad. "Billy and I were also friends, once upon a time. Allied together to protect the crew, and our own interests, from the worst of Flint's madness. But that, like much else, came to an end long ago. If he's lived this time as a penniless mendicant, exiled and disgraced by pirate and English alike, taking work on this ship or that one, suffering, dwindling to nothing – can you really not think that learning this would make no difference? Suddenly, a quarter-century since his life was ruined, the man who ruined it has risen from the grave. He is in reach, a tangible flesh-and-blood entity to strangle with one's own hands, a final and damning victory when Flint would altogether not see it coming, or have any reason to expect another attack, especially on this front. To make his joy turn to ashes in his mouth. That is the sort of prospect to give a man a new life, a possession of a cause, one last worthwhile thing to do before he dies. So aye. If Bones knows your grandfather is alive, you're all in danger."

Thomas started to say something else, then stopped, frowning and troubled. "But he – " he began at last. "James has been reported dead half a dozen times, at least. How would Bones have any idea that those were a fraud, and what was the truth?"

"Again, another question that one might consider it imperative to investigate." Silver leaned back in his chair, picked up Charles' wine goblet, and took a sip, raising an eyebrow at Geneva. "But of course, your uncle cannot spare a ship?"

Charles winced, looking at her with a guilty expression. It was reasonably clear that he was hoping for her to volunteer the _Rose_ , rather than suffer the awkwardness of being strong-armed into doing it for her. She was aware that her family had come into possession of a Navy frigate by thievery, though not that Silver thought he was entitled to all the credit for it – yet she had no way to say that, born liar as he might be, he was fibbing about that. Thomas was not disagreeing, at any rate, which meant that whatever James had said to him about his old quartermaster and uncertain ally and ultimate friend and enemy alike, it must correspond at least roughly to this. The silence was excruciating. Then, gritting her teeth, Geneva said, "Well. I have a ship."

"You do? Wonderful news." Silver glanced at her with such nonchalance that it was almost impressive, despite the shameless operation of this entire little manipulation. "Available for our use, perhaps, if I was to find us a crew?"

Geneva glanced at her uncles for help, though she wasn't sure how much to expect from either of them. Charles was clearly allowing this to happen if he wanted to stay in business, and Thomas wouldn't argue against investigating this mystery, if there was a deranged and vengeful ex-nemesis of Flint's out there who very much intended to see to his unfinished business. Finally she said, "We're not provisioned for a crossing to England, we'd – "

"That would be attended to." Silver finished off Charles' wine and put the cup down.

"So you want to stop Billy, do you?" Thomas looked as if he had been too well warned about Silver's true nature to accept this explanation at face value. "That is what you'd have us believe? To prevent him from reaching Westminster with this kind of information – why?"

"I don't believe that was the issue under discussion." Silver's tone remained polite, but his eyes were as guarded as castle walls. "The benefits for your family are obvious. I suppose your niece would have no objection to bringing you along. You are, after all, intimately and unfortunately familiar with the operation of English politics. You might have an old connection or two in Parliament you could approach – discreetly, naturally. It would be quite embarrassing for them to receive the disgraced and twice-dead Thomas Hamilton, banished first to Bethlem Royal Hospital and then some work plantation in the Americas, in public."

Thomas's fist clenched on the table, even as he fought for the poise of a lifetime diplomat and nobleman who knew he was being baited and had to resist the urge to take it. After a moment, he managed a gracious, if strained, smile and nod. "Yes. Of course."

"Splendid. I'll call at the house tomorrow to discuss arrangements." Silver wiped his mouth and stood up. "So if that's all, I'll be – "

"What does Mrs. Silver think of this?" Charles seemed to have taken himself aback by this interjection, but could not retreat once it had been made. "She is in accord, of course?"

Silver's smile this time was the frostiest of all. "As we have never been married in the eyes of English law," he said, "she is still customarily known as Madi Scott. As for her sentiments, I am afraid I would not know. Good evening, Miss Jones, Mr. Swan, Mr. Hamilton."

With that, he took up the crutch from where it rested, tucked it under his arm, and made his determined way through the tavern crowds and out the door, leaving Geneva and her uncles in a state of mild shock. At last, she turned to the former of these in considerable outrage. "Why didn't you tell me that this was why you were so pleased to see me?"

"I. . ." Charles trailed off under her stare. "To be fair, I had no way of knowing what exactly he was proposing. This was the first I heard the details as much as you. And, erm, if you and your great-uncle could see your way to doing it, I'd be very grateful. I would write to your parents, of course, mention that it was only a small errand and I would reimburse you for all reasonable expenses. I. . . really do not have any other candidates, and Mr. Silver has been helpful in the past, and it, well, it does sound rather serious. If you might. . .?"

Geneva chewed this over. She did not particularly want to say yes, but she was also not sure it was wise to say no, and if this did have to do with Bones and some revived revenge plot against her grandfather and by extension her family, it was best that she get to the bottom of it. She had wanted to make a trip abroad, after all. Might be able to fit in a side excursion to Paris to see her uncle Liam and aunt Regina, though she had meant to bring her parents along on that one. But as it would take more time to make another trip to Savannah and back, and as time was plainly one thing Silver did not want to waste, it did not look likely that she could pop by to pick them up. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, not that she needed her parents' permission to sail as she pleased. She was a grown woman, and the _Rose's_ rightful captain. It was her call.

"Fine," she said. "I'll do it. But you owe me really bloody marvelous Christmas presents for at least the next ten years."

"Ten?" The relief that spread across Charles' face was palpable. "My dear, I would say twenty."

* * *

Killian and Emma did not say much on the way back from the harbor. They had to drive James and Miranda home first, and as they pulled up and Flint climbed out of the buggy, thus to offer his hand to Miranda with somewhat stiff courtesy, they all knew him well enough to see that he was ruffled. Not necessarily at any of them, but Nassau was quite clearly a sensitive subject, and one which he could not help feeling haunted by. As Miranda took his hand and stepped down, she said, "Are you going to tell us what is troubling you, my dear, or wait for me to draw it out?"

"I still don't know if it was wise to let them go alone." Flint glanced at Killian and Emma, as if to say that surely they must have an opinion on letting their only begotten daughter walk into a nest of vipers without due and extensive preparation. "Who knows what scum is lurking around there, waiting for an opportune moment? Thomas doesn't know the place like you and I did. If he or Jenny get themselves into a situation they can't escape – "

"They are both very clever people, and doubtless will endeavor all they can to remedy it." Miranda squeezed his hand comfortingly. "If you really thought it was so dangerous, you could have said otherwise, or – "

"I couldn't have gone, we both know that." Flint was still vigorous enough that he rarely looked his age, but just now, the weight of nearly seventy hard-battled years had settled on his shoulders. "And I didn't want to leave you alone. It's not that I think Thomas and Jenny can't handle themselves, but we all know what that place made us, and how. It's . . . easier to bear it yourself, than to watch."

"Aye," Emma said quietly. "Sam said something much the same to me once."

There was a communal heavy silence, as all of them knew that she was not referring to their son and grandson, but to their late – well, there was never any easy word or way to define what Samuel Bellamy was to them, even in the comparatively brief time he had been in their lives. Sometimes Emma thought she had only ever loved Killian more, and the notion that they were now going on twenty-five years without him was an almost unbearable crime. Sometimes Sam seemed half a dream they had all had together, and still lingered at the edges of waking, never quite banished or sent to rest. Flint and Miranda could not regret having Thomas back, but she knew that sometimes they wondered if it would have been so easy to choose, if Sam had lived. They had shared him with each other, and their grief with him, and his death, coming so soon after Miranda's apparent loss in Charlestown, had been the final heartbreak to push Flint over the edge and into his desire to seek his own end and cessation and the drowning of his burdens in the sea. Even now, Killian, Emma, James, and Miranda were careful with Sam's memory, the moments at which they conjured him, the times at which they did not. They could not fail to hear his name spoken every day to the boy who carried it on, but that was different. Sam Jones was his own self, not a shadow of his godfather, and they were all grateful. And yet.

"Well," Miranda said briskly, rousing everyone from their reverie. "I doubt even Nassau can wreak too much mischief in a fortnight, now can it? And I rather suspect you enjoyed the opportunity to tell Jenny to embrace her pirate roots, James, even if you won't admit it. Come, help me inside, and let Killian and Emma be on their way."

Flint looked briefly as if he was about to respond to this, but waited as Emma leaned down to kiss her mother. "We'll be in touch," she said. "If Sam comes home soon, we'll all be by for supper, how does that sound? I'm sure he has a great deal to tell us."

"Aye," Flint said cynically. "Best hope he's not wearing a red coat when he does."

Emma shot him a look, as while Flint was generally very fond of his younger grandson, he had not ceased to offer his disparaging opinions on the vastly ill-conceived decision to take part in an English war on any side except that of their enemies. "I just want to see him safe."

"Of course." Flint nodded to them both, then took Miranda's arm and walked them up the path to the house. He let them in and shut the door, and Emma paused, shook herself, then took up the reins and wheeled the buggy around. They had a few things to pick up on the way back, so she'd best get there before the shopkeepers all went to lunch. It would also be good to have something to take her mind off Geneva and Sam alike. She was likewise confident in their ability to take care of themselves, but trouble, especially for a Swan-Jones child, was rarely too far away.

They drove back into downtown Savannah, as Emma parked the buggy at a hitching post and went into the grocer's with her list, as Killian stepped down to enjoy the shade. She stood out among the flurry of sensibly mob-capped, plainly-skirted women jostling to the counter and vying to attract the attention of the grocer or his apprentice. For a lady of her status – not ridiculously wealthy, but between the portion of the Spanish treasure they had invested, the income from Nassau, Killian's owned shares in several ships, and Geneva's trading business, more than comfortably off – doing one's own errands was clearly déclassé.

Once Emma had been apportioned her goods, Killian appeared to help lug them out to the buggy, causing another stir among the women – whether for a gentleman hauling heavy flour sacks, his missing hand, or his striking good looks even in his mid-fifties, it was hard to say. Emma had just returned inside to fetch her potatoes when she overheard the grocer arguing with a particularly persistent customer who wanted _two_ parcels of sugarcane, not one. "Miss, there's no telling if there'll be sugar next week or not, not if the Spaniards come marching up from the south! I need to be sensible about what I'm buying and selling, if they – "

"I'm sorry to interrupt." Emma leaned over. "Was there news about an invasion?"

The grocer squinted at her, but gave in, as Leroy Small could rarely resist the urge to do, to gossip. "Aye. The Spaniards, they might be here soon. Oglethorpe's in full retreat, he's even left his artillery behind, some said. Take my word on it, sister."

Emma raised an eyebrow, as she did not want to be so pompous as to snobbily correct his assumption that she was another of the maidservants, but found it slightly irritating nonetheless. Especially as Small had been responsible for crying wolf several times in the past, she was not sure she entirely trusted a loud-mouthed purveyor of public hysteria, yet wanted to know just how bad the situation might be. "So he's retreating with his army, then? Do you know when they left St. Augustine?"

"Week ago? That and a bit?" Small shrugged. "You have a son in the ranks, then?"

"Actually," Emma said, "yes, I do."

"Well. Hope he's not dead, sister." Evidently viewing this as a positive remark on which to close out the interaction, Small nodded chummily to her and went back to his argument about the sugar, while Emma rolled her eyes heavenward and hoisted the potato sack. She went out and put it with the others in the buggy, then got up with somewhat more emphasis than she intended. The confirmation about the retreat was grim, but at least Sam would be back soon. He was fine.

"Hey, love." Killian put his hand on hers. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, just something he – Small – said." Emma forced a smile. "I'm fine."

Killian's lips went thin, as he and the grocer had not been on the most spectacular of terms since Leroy had interrupted a romantic supper Killian and Emma were having on the waterfront for their twentieth wedding anniversary by shouting that the market was on fire (the market had not been on fire). "That short noisy bastard? I'll sort him if you like, Swan."

"No, no, nothing like that. He said Oglethorpe's all but running out of Florida with his tail between his legs, and the Spaniards could be hot on the trail after him. You know him, it could be entirely hot air, but – "

"You're worried about Sam, and us if the Spanish get here," Killian completed, reading her thoughts as usual. "Well, love, no need to panic until we hear it from a more reliable source. Come on, let's get home before we melt in the heat."

Emma nodded, banishing the faint chill that had touched her neck despite it, and prodded the horses into motion, clip-clopping the rest of the way home, up the drive, and into the carriage house to unhitch, while Killian unloaded the groceries. Once Emma had splashed some water on her face and dusted the mud off, she fetched her quill and inkwell and paper from the desk, sat down, and began to draft an advertisement to be sent off to the _Gazette._ Two household staff, a maidservant and footman, sought for a modest family estate. Pay would be generous and treatment fair, references and discretion appreciated. Address all correspondence to Mrs. E. Jones, care of the City Hall, Savannah, Prov. of Georgia.

Once Emma had folded it and set it on the side table, she went to the kitchen to start supper. Still unable to banish a certain lurking disquiet about Sam, she distracted herself with reading the letter from Henry and Violet that Geneva had brought back from Boston. Her grandchildren, Richard and Lucy, were eight and five years old respectively, and while Philadelphia was not much closer than Boston in the scheme of things, Emma thought it might be nice to have them continue to progress in a southward direction. She had missed so much of Henry's childhood that she wanted to be there in some respect for the second generation, but time and distance made that difficult. They seemed to be happy, doing well. She would just have to take that for comfort. All of her children felt very far away right now, physically or otherwise.

Emma slept intermittently that night, woke early, and decided to take the letter to mail both in hopes of shaking her melancholy mood, and finding out if there was any more news to be had about Oglethorpe's retreat. There were certainly other mothers anxious for word of sons, wives for husbands, and Emma felt a peculiar, shameful gratitude that Killian's missing hand kept him at home – the thought of having to worry about him _and_ Sam was too much to contemplate. For the same reason, when Henry had ventured the prospect of a visit last Christmas, Emma had advised him not to, fearing that he would be caught up in the militia recruitment. Henry was a scholar, not a soldier, and could barely fire a gun straight, but that would not have mattered.

Emma hitched up and drove into town, dropping the letter off with the packet boat that made the weekly trip between Savannah and Williamsburg. She was not quite so desperate as to subject herself to a return to Leroy's, but she did not need to, as there were knots of worried civilians congregating in the square; this was clearly now the number one topic of public concern. There was no way to know if the governor was going to come rushing in to fortify the city for an expected attack, if this was just a prudent or even overly cautious strategical decision, or if the entire coast was burning behind him.

Emma debated joining one of these groups, but it felt rather too much like congregating at a wake, and she shook her head again, furious with herself. Yet the fact remained that the last time she had had one of these feelings, explainable only by motherly intuition and a strong sense of things simply being _not right,_ was when Sam was eight years old, out too late on a stormy night, and when she had finally taken the lantern and gone to look for him, she found him trapped under a broken log, a few hundred yards out in the trees, the wind blowing his shouts for help in the wrong direction. He had a badly twisted ankle and was rattled and cold and upset, but otherwise right as rain by the morning, and she had always been grateful that it was not anything worse. But if she had ignored it for another few hours, if someone or something had happened by, if the storm had gotten worse, if anything. . .

Still, short of riding straight down to Florida herself and getting into the middle of whatever mess might be going on there, there was nothing for Emma to do, and she finally gave up and went home. Killian was sitting in the garden, reading another of the books that Geneva had brought back for them, but when he sensed her presence behind her, he marked his place, set it aside, and held out his arms. "Come here, love."

Emma hesitated, then went over and sat down on his lap, settling her head against his shoulder as he linked his arms around her waist, brushing a blonde-grey strand of hair out of her face. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Aye, well, I do." He pressed a light kiss against her collarbone. "I'll promise to give Sam an extra-good bollocking when he comes home, for making you worry. If that would help."

"If we did. . ." Emma trailed off, half-ashamed of herself for even suggesting it, but not enough to stop. "If we did go try to find him. . ."

Killian kissed her palm. "You know I want him back as much as you do, and Christ knows I've spent plenty of time thinking of all the terrible ways he's likely gotten himself in hot water. But Sam's a man now, not a boy. A young one, but still. You have to let him flap his wings a bit – aye, and crash, if only since it's the only way he'll ever learn. It's hard for you, with the way you are in wanting to protect everyone, and being his mother to boot, but for better or worse, we can't rush in and pull him out of every tight corner he ends up in. You know I'd take you seriously if you thought he was badly injured, or worse, but. . . do you feel like that, love?"

Emma considered. "No," she admitted. "Just that _something's_ wrong."

"That's his usual state of being, isn't it?" Killian said wryly. "You can blame me for that, if you wish."

"I'm not sure, I think we might share it equally." Feeling somewhat better, if still not entirely reassured, Emma nuzzled his cheek with her nose, then kissed it, and they sat in comfortable silence for some while, until a knock on the front door, echoing through the house, startled her. "Are we expecting someone?"

"Not that I know of." Looking surprised, Killian slid her off his lap, and got to his feet. Both of them must have had the thought at the same instant that it might be one of Oglethorpe's officers, or one of the militiamen, or – "I'll come with you, love. If you. . ."

"No," Emma said, as firmly as she could. "Don't be ridiculous. I'll be right back."

With that, leaving him in the garden, she went back into the house, crossed the front foyer, had to swallow down a brief and unwelcome nervousness, and convulsively straightened her hair. Then she opened the door. "Yes? May I help you?"

"Are you Mrs. Jones?" The man on the other side was a rough-hewn sort in a homespun brown coat, with callused hands and a faint whiff of the stockyard. "You put in a notice for a footman?"

"I did." Emma was taken aback. "But I only sent it off this morning, it hasn't even left Savannah yet, much less reached the _Gazette._ How did you – ?"

"The master of the packet boat is my cousin. He saw it, knew I was searching for work, thought to send me along. A chance you're free to discuss the position, ma'am?"

"I. . ." Emma supposed this was possible, even if this individual was rather slovenly for a prospective footman and there was something about him that put her on guard. "I'm actually rather – maybe not at the moment, but if you return when the notice is published, we could – "

"No, ma'am, I'd really like to."

"I don't think that will be – "

With that, quick as a snake, he moved. He slammed one hand over her mouth, pushed her backwards through the door, and fumbled in his jacket for a knife – an ugly, ill-kept thing which he was currently trying to plunge between her stays. Emma grabbed his arm, wrenched it over his head, and slammed her knee up through her skirts to catch him smartly between the legs, then twisted him off her as he let out a yelp. She forced his fingers open, making him drop the knife, though he continued scrabbling for it. Emma knocked it away, worked up enough momentum to throw him off her, and both of them dove for it at the same instant – she had not fought like this in years, but it came to her without conscious thought, a deeply ingrained old reflex. She opened her mouth, about to yell for Killian, then panicked about him being caught in the middle of this, if someone who was certainly not a footman had turned up apparently for the express purpose of murdering her in her own front hall –

Just then, a pistol went off at close range, Emma's ears rang, and the next thing she saw was her erstwhile assailant crumpling to his knees, a bloody hole blown through his forehead, and a grisly amount of brain and bone splashing the whitewashed wall behind him. He folded forward, then hit the floor facedown, as she whirled to see Killian pointing his flintlock with cold and deadly intent, making sure the bastard was not about to get up again. Then when there was no sound but the echoes of the gunshot, a slow crimson trail seeping out in all directions, he demanded, "Bloody fucking hell, what was that? Are you all right?"

"I'm – I'm fine, I – " Emma discovered that her legs were shakier than she thought as she attempted to get to her feet. It had all happened so fast that she wasn't sure she hadn't dreamed it, except for the indubitable presence of a dead man on her nicely swept floorboards. "Killian, he tried to kill me, I don't – "

"Aye, I saw, hence why I made sure he couldn't!" Killian's eyes flashed, until for the first time in years, she could glimpse the dangerous blue-heat glimmer of Captain Hook. "Or did he – "

Emma steadied herself on the banister of the stairs, took a deep breath, and went over to the corpse, swallowing down her revulsion. It certainly wasn't as if she'd never seen a man abruptly shot to death – just not, again, for a while. She knelt down and went through his pockets, and finally pulled out a small knotted sack that when opened, spilled several freshly-minted golden guineas into her hand, _Georgius II Dei Gratia_ stamped cleanly on the face around a portrait of the king in laurel-wreathed Roman style, the inscription continuing on the back to frame the royal coat of arms. This was more money than a humble tradesman might see in a year, or several, and Emma sucked in her breath. "Killian. Look."

He leaned over her shoulder, catching her drift. "Bloody _hell._ Someone paid him."

"Someone paid him a lot." Emma put the coins back, having an unpleasant sensation of déjà-vu to when she had been recruited in a dark tavern in the Turks Islands, to the aim of capturing HMS _Imperator_ and destroying its commanding officers – one of whom she had now been married to for almost twenty-five years, coincidentally. "To kill us, or at least to try. For this price, you think they could have found a decent hitman."

"Unless they did," Killian said, very grimly. "You advertised for two servants, didn't you?"

"What do you – "

"If you hired two assassins, one much better at their job than the other, and sent one here knowing he'd likely be killed, but considering it a useful diversion, and that you'd get your money back as soon as he was dead anyway, where might you send the other?" Killian was already grabbing for his boots. "Especially when he made a public appearance yesterday for the first time in bloody years, so if you were paying attention to such things, you'd know he wasn't really dead?"

Emma remained blank an instant longer, than horrified. "What – _Flint?_ You think someone sent this one over here to distract us and make sure we couldn't interfere, so the actually competent one could – ?"

It was reasonably plain that that was indeed what Killian was saying, and there was no time to hitch up the buggy. Leaving the problem of the dead man in their front hall for later, they grabbed a pistol apiece, flew to their feet, out to the stable, saddled the horses as quickly as they could, and leapt astride, thundering down the road, avoiding the city proper, and out to the Hamilton-McGraw residence. They dismounted almost before they had reined in, ran up the walk, and Killian kicked the door in. "Hey. HEY!"

They could hear the sounds of a struggle coming from the back of the house, and raced in just in time to see Flint being pinned against the wall by some colossal – and colossally unfriendly-looking – man in a tattered black coat. He was snapping and punching and kicking like a shark on the line, but wheezing as his throat was progressively crushed, and Miranda was bleeding from the forehead, looking as if she had been thrown back against the bookcase. She struggled to her feet and threw a very heavy copy of _Dr. Faustus_ at the man, clearly trying to get him to drop Flint and come after her, but even this literary ambush did not succeed in diverting him from his purpose. Miranda then looked set to charge him, but as a sixty-five-year-old woman who needed a cane to walk and who was already disoriented from being hit, she would not have done much good. Fortunately, Emma and Killian had arrived in the nick of time to do it for her. Emma rushed to cover her, while Killian – evidently deciding that one dead man was going to be hard enough to get rid of and doubtless wanting to press this one for more information – snatched up the fallen Marlowe and brutally concussed Flint's attacker with it. He wavered, then staggered back, which gave Flint just enough opportunity to wrench free, snatch the heavy pistol from the desk drawer, and shoot him anyway. As he went down, it was just possible to see Killian slap a hand to his face. "Mate! No!"

As the ruckus belatedly quieted, everyone gasping for breath and struggling to regain their bearings, Flint sprinted across to Miranda, whom Emma was just helping to sit up. "Fucking hell! What just – are you – ?"

"I'm all right." Miranda winced, pressing Emma's offered handkerchief to the gash on her temple. "You know, I really did think we were past all this."

"So did I," Flint said darkly. Having assured himself of her safety, he spun around to glare at the corpse, then at Killian, as if blaming him for its presence. "The _fuck_ was that all about?!"

"I was going to ask him, before you shot him!" Killian was clearly not about to be blamed for his father-in-law's trigger-happy ways. "And there's more, one of these bastards came by our house as well, I shot that one, which is why I was trying to keep this one alive for questioning. Seeing as if someone is paying them a handsome sum to kill us, I'd like to know why!"

"They came after you. . .?" Flint's blood was still too up to focus on much beside the presence of someone who had tried to kill him and his wife in their own sitting room, but that at least made him frown. "What the – someone knows we're here? That all of us are here?"

"So it would seem," Emma said, wiping the last trickle of blood from Miranda's cut. "I doubt there are odds long enough to cover this being a case of some _other_ notorious ex-pirates that someone wanted dead, and we just happened to be in the way."

"If we now have a pair of dead men in our houses, that is going to be a further difficulty." Miranda pushed away Emma's hand and looked around for her cane, struggling painfully to her feet. "Murder, no matter how justified, is not the sort of crime to make the authorities turn a blind eye. If our real names and identities are uncovered, there will be a trial and a spectacle. We'll have to dispose of the bodies at once, and hope no one comes searching for them."

Flint gave her a look as if to say that this was exactly why he loved her, that she could shake off an assassination attempt and then coolly plan how to hide the evidence. It was true that any run-in with a magistrate's court or any other instrument of justice was not going to end well for the men, especially as they had only their own word that the killing had been in defense of themselves and their womenfolk – the victims, after all, were dead and not able to say otherwise. Any jury would be quick to suspect the worst of former pirates, especially two as notorious as Hook and Flint, the legendary terrors of the Caribbean. This was exactly what they did not need.

They had to wait until dark to proceed, at any rate. Then – with Flint armed to the teeth and keeping extremely vigilant watch until they returned – Emma and Killian rode back to their house at what they hoped was an unsuspicious speed, swung down, and while Emma hitched the horses up to their cart, Killian went inside and wrapped the dead man in an old sheet. They hefted him into the back – already smelling ripe from the heat – and tossed a few things on top, so they would not be very obviously out for a nice evening drive with a corpse. It was a nerve-wracking trip back to Flint and Miranda, who, having ransacked their own dead man for any potential evidence, and finding nothing of use, had likewise unceremoniously bundled him up for burial. Flint was not leaving Miranda by herself at the house with the slightest chance of more killers on the loose, so they all climbed aboard and rode as nonchalantly as they could into the woods, flies starting to buzz above their pungent burdens.

Once they had gotten far enough outside the city limits that they were not likely to be discovered or inopportunely interrupted, Emma reined in the horses, and Killian and Flint jumped down, found a suitably soft bit of ground, and pulled out the spades. Killian wasn't the fastest at digging with one hand, so Emma took over, she and Flint laboring in the thick, sweltering blue-black night, intermittently pricked by the glow of fireflies. The lantern hung on the spar wavered in the haze, dancing like a will-o-the-wisp, as Emma struggled not to recall several memorable ghost stories she had heard about dark nights in remote woods. God, this was not good. Even if they could hastily bury the bodies and return to town with nobody any the wiser, someone still knew they were alive, lived here, and had made a serious attempt to have them killed. If so, Oglethorpe's retreat was the very least of their problems.

Once Emma and Flint, sweating and swearing, had hollowed out a hole of suitable size, they crawled free, got the bodies out of the cart, and dumped them in. Emma felt a faint impulse to say a prayer, not out of any real concern for the souls of the not-so-dearly-departed, but to ward them off from any desire to stay around and haunt her. Not that she believed in ghosts, not really, but any good seafarer did not take superstition lightly, and Killian had already turned in a circle three times and tossed some dirt over his shoulder. Emma herself had a brief and horrible conviction that one of the dead men was stirring in his shroud as she and Flint began to throw on shovelfuls of rich damp earth, and had to fight the urge to just pile it on all at once and run away. Maybe set a boulder on top, just for good measure. Bloody hell, she was not sleeping tonight.

At last, they finished their macabre task, and climbed back onto the cart, uncorking the water skin Miranda passed over and taking a long guzzle apiece. The stench of decay and grave dirt clung to them both, so that Emma would need to wash thoroughly in the near future. Killian had led the horses away to stop them being spooked by the dead men, so he brought them back and they hitched up again. Emma did her best not to wheel them around and lay tracks back to town, but she wanted out of that place, and badly.

"I think perhaps you two should stay with us tonight," she said, low-voiced, as they rolled through a stand of whispering trees, moonlight casting weird shadows on the ground. "I'd feel better about it. At least until we find out who was responsible for this."

"Aye, I'd feel better about it as well." Miranda glanced at her, the troubled look on her face plainly visible in the silver glow. None of them wanted to discuss the dread prospect of losing their home here in Savannah, everything they had built for many years, but they could all sense it hanging over their head like the sword of Damocles. It was almost a good thing that Sam was off wherever he was, that Geneva and Thomas were in Nassau, as at least it kept them at arm's length from whatever ugly flower had started to bloom here. "But we must be very careful at pulling at any of these threads. We may find the answers, and wish we hadn't."

"I want to know who's trying to kill me," Flint said flatly. "These days, at least."

"Of course. But anyone who knows about us is just the beginning of the danger. Anyone they told, any way they could spread it. . ." Miranda trailed off. "I'm not sure they'll do us the favor of barging into our parlors to be conveniently shot."

"But who would want us dead?" Emma asked. "The Georgia authorities know who we are, or at least who Killian and I are, and as long as we pay our taxes and live quietly, they've never troubled us. Why would that have changed? Under who?"

"I don't know." Miranda continued to regard her gravely. "Who?"


	3. III

Geneva stood on the doorstep for several moments, working over the words in her head, before she raised her hand to knock – and yet once she did, they all fled anyway, leaving her uncharacteristically tongue-tied. She wasn't even sure why. This was by far the least difficult part of what she appeared to have gotten herself into, and she wasn't, in the ordinary course of things, prone to nerves. But perhaps it was the sense that, if anywhere, this was her last chance to get out of it or at least not go in completely blind, and if it failed, she was. . . well, it wouldn't be good. Using John Silver's false leg to bash him over the head sounded an appealing idea, but was not about to solve any of their present quandaries. This might, but at a cost.

After a long moment, the door was opened by a young maidservant holding a candelabra, who looked startled to see a caller at this unsociable hour; it was past ten o'clock, and even on late, long summer evenings, even on such a place of relaxed protocol as Nassau, business, except of the most urgent sort, could usually wait for breakfast. "Can I help you, Miss – ?"

"Captain," Geneva said. "Captain Jones. Is your mistress home tonight?"

A brief, unreadable flicker passed over the maid's face. "She is home, yes."

"If she's not abed, and even if she is, I would like a word, and I'm prepared to pay for the privilege." This might not be a pirate haunt any more, at least to the eyes of the world, but Geneva was quite sure that a well-placed coin or two could not hurt (and had already seen, of course, that this element was far from eradicated). In proof of her statement, she casually twiddled a piece of eight between her fingers, a trick she had learned to pass the time, and which always made men hereunto confident of cheating a little lady in a lacy dress rather hot under the collar. "It concerns – well, I'm told it's not quite proper to call him her husband?"

That did get the maid's attention. She paused, then nodded once, stepped aside, and admitted Geneva into the dark hall, leading her through it to the airy veranda at the back of the house, screened to all sides with palm trees and dark tangles of bushes, fat white candles lit in punctured tin lanterns and spilling waxen gremlins. Two women sat at a table on the porch, account books and ledgers open in heaps, along with stacks of requisitions and docking reports and neatly inked columns of figures. It was plain that no matter the lateness of the hour, they saw it as no deterrent to sorting out whatever pressing matters of business occupied them, and Geneva felt a certain peeress-to-peeress admiration. These were her sorts of folk.

"Madam?" the maidservant said. "There's a Captain Jones here, asking to see you."

The nearest of the two looked up. She was a regal, stately African woman with long black dreadlocks, only barely touched with silver, gathered from her face with a knotted scarf of colorful fabric, the merest suggestion of lines around her calm dark eyes, and a presence that in youth must have been strong and feisty and brave enough, but had turned with age into something even more formidable, polished and beautiful and inscrutable as onyx. Her expression showed a hint of surprise, but only that, before she pushed her chair back and swept to her feet. "I am Madi Scott," she said. "Was I the one you were looking for?"

"I. . . yes, ma'am." Geneva had a momentary impulse to curtsy, though she had a feeling Madi would find it amusing, or even insulting. "I'm sorry to call so late."

"We were awake." Madi nodded to her companion, another dark-eyed, middle-aged woman who wore thick kohl liner and a string of pearls. "This is Max, the factor of Nassau. Have you met?"

"I'm Charles Swan's niece," Geneva said. "You three work together."

"Ah. Charles." It was unclear from Madi's tone whether being related to him was something to aspire to or not. "Yes, we do. His niece, then? Hook and Swan's daughter?"

Geneva was unsure how to feel about the fact that everyone seemed to know her, or at least her parents. It certainly meant that her family had left an indelible impression on this place – which, given what Silver was trying to blackmail her into, was presently the problem. "Yes."

Madi considered a moment, then beckoned Geneva to take the extra chair at the table. "Your father saved my life once. Sit down."

That took Geneva by surprise, as it was a story she had not heard, but she did, as Madi nodded for the maidservant to excuse herself. Geneva noted that the girl was white, and could not help but admire the fact that the daughter of former slaves could turn the tables so neatly. She accepted the cup of something that Madi passed her, then looked at it in surprise. "What's this?"

"Sangria," Madi said. "It is a Spanish drink. What did you come to say?"

"It's about. . ." Geneva hesitated. "John Silver."

"Ah." Madi's face was as smooth and beautiful and unreadable as a statue of polished teakwood. But her reaction on hearing the name was clearly far from warm, which confirmed to Geneva that common-law though it might be, the marriage was either way considerably estranged. "And what has he done now, exactly?"

Geneva took another sip of sangria to brace herself, and then did her best to explain the sorry situation which she had somehow found herself plunged into, upon the occasion of just trying to enjoy a peaceable getaway to Nassau with her great-uncle. At the mention of Thomas Hamilton, Madi's expression flickered, but not enough to permit any clear indication of her thoughts. When Geneva had finished, she said, "You are expecting me to do something about it? Approach John, perhaps? Convince him of the folly or danger or futility of this enterprise?"

"I thought. . ." Now that it came to it, Geneva was not entirely sure. "I thought you should at least know that was what he was asking of us."

Madi's lips tightened. "I am not surprised," she said. "We have. . . been apart. For some time. There seems to be less binding us now, than there was. When there was the war, and the need to fight it, that served as the strongest shared ground between us. Now there is less. I do not believe that the victory he desired was to see Nassau serve as just yet another ordinary trading post in the West Indies, for its destiny to be so mundane as that. He saw something different. Special. Stronger. A place he could craft to his liking, in his own image, and over which he could hold the final say. And Long John Silver does not take easily to such. . . diminution."

Geneva was not surprised by this, as surely some of Nassau's residents would have accepted its reclamation by civilization more readily than others, and nor was she surprised that Silver would be one of those who found the yoke still too heavy to bear. Not after who he had been, not when he must have made a comfortable enough life for himself in this new skin, but remained ultimately restless, unsatisfied, and forever just that bit unshakably haunted by the events of Skeleton Island, and the loss of the _Walrus,_ her crew, the Spanish treasure, and Flint. Flint himself had never said a word about how he had gotten off the island, how long he had spent there, or what had passed between him and Silver in their final conversation, why Silver had taken the impression back to the others that he was dead, or near enough not to matter. If he had told the story even to Miranda and Thomas, Geneva was not sure, and it was certainly not something he had shared with his grandchildren. But if that was so, despite the veneer of misdirection and manipulation that clothed them, Silver's motives might be, at heart, the same as Billy Bones's. He too had lost his old life, and everything that mattered to him most, on Skeleton Island. Small wonder that, upon hearing of this possibility, of its ghost risen to trouble him once more, he was so obsessed with uncovering the truth of it.

For her part, Geneva could not help but think that this sounded very like what Flint himself had aspired for Nassau, and she could not imagine that he, if forced to live under its new regime with the memories of the old one all about, would have been particularly content either, or able to let the past go. Even now, in Georgia, it retained its hold on him, and to think of trying to do it here was impossible. This did not engender any overwhelming sympathy for Silver, but it did at least provide some insight into his perpetually opaque mental processes. "Do you know how he could have heard that Billy Bones might be alive?"

Max was the one to answer that. "A half-mad Irish pirate," she said. "Ben Gunn. Claimed to have sailed with the _Walrus,_ and that he was one of the men marooned there upon its wreck in 1716. Arrived in Nassau a few months ago, to tell a tale that he and Bones had been on the island for almost three years after the shipwreck, and finally both bargained passage off on a passing trader. They did not see Flint while they were there, or know how he escaped. They supposed he was dead. Apparently Gunn and Billy worked on several ships after that, mostly in the African Ocean near the Gold and Ivory Coasts. Parted ways and then crossed them again several times. His last report was that Bones had made his way back to the Americas, met with someone in Charlestown, and then took ship for England immediately afterward. Not long ago."

"Charlestown?" That, to say the least, sent a cold chill down Geneva's back. There was possibly no place in the Colonies that her family had a darker history with, and none of them had had any desire to return there since Flint and Charles Vane had burned and sacked it. Flint himself had killed Peter Ashe, its governor, his old friend, and the man who betrayed him, Thomas, and Miranda, and Miranda herself still lived every day with the damage of her ordeal. "Bones met someone in Charlestown? Someone who could have passed him the intelligence about us?" To say the least, the Carolinas would not have forgotten a grudge against Flint. No one who had ever met (or run afoul) of her grandfather often did.

"We don't know," Max said. "Gunn was. . . far from clear."

"Could I speak to him?"

"If you have a gravedigger and a conjure-man." Madi smiled, without amusement. "He's dead. Not long after he arrived. A fever. All we have are the fragmented ramblings of a man on his deathbed, told to a drunk priest, who was not sure he had recalled half of them correctly. So as you can see, this is somewhat less than certainty."

"Silver seems to be taking it seriously."

"Indeed he is." Madi sat back in her chair, face still unreadable. "Even the chance that Billy Bones, the only other person apart from Flint and Silver themselves who knows the location and secrets of Skeleton Island, was alive, is enough to be followed to every end."

"And so that's what Silver has been trying to engage you for, to track Billy down by use of your ship and to call in every favor your uncle Charles owes him," Max completed. When Geneva looked at her in startlement, she shrugged. "I have known the man from the moment he first set foot in Nassau, nearly thirty years ago. I have more than some acquaintance with his character."

"Yes." Geneva could not help but suspect that Madi and Max were the queens of this island, crowned or uncrowned, and that no matter how vital her uncle fancied himself to its operations, it was only insofar as the space they allowed him. That, after all, was why she had felt it prudent to pay an immediate visit. "That, therefore, was my question. I did not arrive here intending to undertake a voyage of some months in pursuit of a man who might or might not be planning to sell a literally priceless secret to Westminster, but I am not insensible of the danger to my family if so, or the possibility that England would take a sharply renewed interest in Nassau and everyone who ever lived here. The entire war between England and Spain would become focused on the mystery of Skeleton Island and the possibility of recovering its lost riches, and I cannot doubt that skeletons of a quite different sort would soon begin tumbling from closets. All of which, I further suspect, we would much prefer to stay there."

Madi and Max exchanged an appraising look. "You're a sharp one," Max said, with a faint, enigmatic smile. "And quite lovely, if I may add. Likewise, a woman we could use."

"I've already got one offer I'm not sure what to do with." Geneva glanced between them. "Is there another ship, any at all, you can find for Silver's use? Or at least some way to ensure that the enterprise is not completely beholden to whatever he finds it fit to tell me?"

"I have lived with John as my husband for many years," Madi said, after a moment. "I loved him – in some ways, I still do. He is brave, and clever, and stubborn, and he cares far more than he ever wishes to admit. He was an invaluable asset to us during the war. But the qualities which made him so strong in that situation are ones that. . . transfer less well to peace. He manipulates people, and he will never stop. He has manipulated even me, thinking it with good intentions, in the name of my safety. He will never stop believing that he alone sees a situation the clearest, and that he knows the best manner in which to reach it, and all of us are simply pieces to be moved accordingly. That was why he and Flint were so much the same. In the brief time they were united in their aims and agreed on their moves, they were unstoppable. But Flint was already broken, his star falling, going out. So Silver bore the torch onward. Whether Flint handed it to him, or whether John took it from him, he has never said. Not even to me."

A faint but distinct bitterness edged Madi's voice, and she fell silent, staring off into the darkness of the surrounding trees. Then she shook herself. "So yes. You are right to believe that John would see you as a valuable piece on his chess board, and that while he might regret where he could end up having to move you, he would send you there nonetheless. I do not believe that I could completely forestall it by accompanying you, but it could at least give him pause. As well, I want to know the truth of this matter. I'll come with you."

Geneva blinked. "You'll. . .?"

"Max can manage the business and affairs of the island most competently in my absence. As well, it has been some time since I was allowed to draw a free breath again, to see the world." Madi grinned wistfully, an unexpected expression on her calm and guarded face, which suddenly made her seem younger. "So yes. I will come."

"No other ship, then?"

"One could be found, if necessity was at its uttermost, but for something like this, I think you and I would both ultimately prefer that it was yours, would we not?" Madi raised an eyebrow. "If this is as significant as it seems to be, we do not wish to be caught on the sidelines, powerless to alter its course or its result. When are we departing?"

"The day after tomorrow," Geneva said. "Once the _Rose_ can be properly supplied for a voyage to England, and assuming no further complications – or at least, from outside forces. Silver does not want to waste time, and admittedly, I would like some answers as well."

"The day after tomorrow." Madi rose to her feet, clearly signaling that the conversation, for now, was over. "I will see you then."

Once Geneva had been showed out, glanced warily around to be sure that nobody was lurking in the street to ambush a woman alone at night, and set off back to her uncle's house, she found herself chewing over and over the question of who in Charlestown could have known the sensitive information of her family's history and whereabouts, been in a position to pass it to an embittered old sailor looking for one last revenge on Flint, and what they themselves would have gotten from doing so. The obvious answer was just that they wanted Flint to be actually dead after the number of times the papers had boasted of catching him, but that seemed too easy. Her mother and uncle had lived there after they first arrived from England, with Emma working as a maidservant in the house of the wealthy merchant, Leopold White, but they had been thrown out when she became pregnant with Geneva's elder half-brother. Upon White's death, his fortune and shipping concerns had been inherited by his only daughter, Mary Margaret, who was married to Captain David Nolan of the Royal Navy, a man who had been crucial to the pirates' ultimate overthrow and defeat of Lord Robert Gold. It was the Nolans who had re-enfranchised Nassau and for whom Charles managed their business here, and they resided in Charlestown after David's retirement, in the White family estate. Geneva was not particularly well acquainted with either of them, but it was the only point of contact she could think of. Ask Charles to write to David and Mary Margaret as well as to her parents, and see if they could find someone sniffing about the Carolinas for Flint? Seeing as he was a trusted employee who had worked for them for many years, surely they'd be obliged both to take him seriously, and to put in an effort to look.

These and other strategical considerations kept Geneva distracted even after she arrived back at her uncle's house, was reprimanded for being out so late without an escort, and had to remind him that she was well used to doing things by herself. She went to sleep still thinking of it, woke the next morning without a clear answer, and was run off her feet with preparations all day anyway. Thomas took the opportunity to visit the house outside the city where Miranda (and when he was home, Flint) had lived for their ten years on Nassau. Nobody had wanted to tempt fate, or to inherit the bad luck of its previous owners, by taking it over, and it had turned tumbledown, abandoned and derelict, as he told Geneva that evening. "It's like looking at broken fragments," he said, pensive and quiet. "Sometimes I can piece them together and see what the whole must have looked like, nearly as well as if I was there, and others, all I can see is the debris. Sometimes, our time apart seems only a brief blink, a bad memory, and others, it feels like the greatest eternity in the world."

Geneva nodded sympathetically, as she had been talking (or shouting) all day, and did not have much voice left to do anything else. As well, she could tell that while he had of course agreed to accompany her, Thomas was less than enthused about spending the next several weeks in close proximity to John Silver. Nor was Geneva, but Thomas' hesitation was different. Silver was a living and breathing reminder of Captain Flint, the deeply damaged soul of the man that James McGraw had made himself, and while Thomas had heard the stories, confronting the true, scarred reality was unavoidably painful. Silver was proud of his status as the man who had known Flint the best, his secrets and his dark places and his ghosts, and would not necessarily appreciate being unseated. In this, Geneva could detect a certain – not jealous, exactly, but also not _not_ jealous – air in Silver's attitude toward Thomas. He was clearly wondering, even if he would not admit it, if Thomas was actually worthy of everything Flint had done in his memory. If a decade of exile, anger, and grief had made an undeserving saint of a flawed and petty mortal, as if the full light of day would reveal him to possess a very small shadow instead of the long and inescapable one that had always fallen over Flint. (Not that Silver was at all qualified to cast aspersions in this regard, but that was not likely to stop him.)

"Hey," Geneva said, leaning forward to put a hand on her great-uncle's knee. "This way, at least we can have an adventure of our own, eh? Not just listen to stories from the rest of them. That should help both of us to understand."

That summoned a soft smile to Thomas' lips. "You are kind to say so, my dear. I certainly would hope we should come out with something, for any number of reasons. And for better or worse, I have missed England, for all it did to me. I had rarely left London in my life until I was sent to. . ." He stopped. "Well, it will be good to see it again. Miserable, smoky, and raining though it is destined to be. Have you ever been?"

"No, I've never seen it. Mother's from Boston, in Lincolnshire – we ended up in the Massachusetts one, of course – and Daddy's from Bristol, or at least that's where the _Imperator_ made its home port. I've been to France, but only when I was very young, with Uncle Liam and Aunt Regina. If we can get away, I was thinking of going to Paris to see them."

"I suspect your parents, and your grandparents, shall be quite thoroughly furious with the both of us once we return," Thomas observed wryly. "First Nassau, now London, and with John Silver himself in tow, to chase down Billy Bones. Nearly the only way we could give them further heart failure is if we were to somehow summon Charles Vane back from the dead. But I hope you don't consider me too elderly and feeble to get into decent mischief with."

"Not at all." Geneva grinned at him. "As I said. An adventure it is."

They clinked their glasses and drank to it, went to bed later, and awoke the next morning to complete the final arrangements. The _Rose_ was set to sail on the evening tide, and once Geneva had had a quiet word with her uncle Charles about feeling out the Nolans for any interesting rumors or personages floating around the Carolinas – making it clear that it was the least he could do for the favor she was undertaking for him – she almost felt as if they were starting off well, or at least not completely terribly. She had intentionally forgotten to mention to Silver that they would be bringing his estranged wife along, as she did not want him to have time to plan for this surprise or to work around it, and as they arrived on the docks late that afternoon, Silver was still looking quite confident of himself. He had brought a few men of his own, whom Geneva made a note to keep under the supervision of her more trusted crew members. Probably not enough to take over the vessel, but certainly enough to cause problems, if they so chose.

"Ah, Captain Jones. Good to see we're all punctual. Is that the _Rose_ , just there?" Silver asked. "More or less the same as I recollect, though the paint job seems new."

"I could hardly be sailing what appears to be a Navy sixth-rater under civilian command, could I?" Geneva raised an eyebrow, as Thomas stationed himself behind her right shoulder. They watched the final sets of launches ferrying casks and cargoes out to the _Rose,_ and hauling them aboard, as Geneva supposed it was better not to ask how a refit had been completed so swiftly. She had also spent some quality time with her uncle's collection of navigational charts, as the first challenge, even before setting a heading across the Atlantic to London, was getting them out of the Caribbean in one piece. This was not as easy as it sounded. It would be an inauspicious start to the venture if she ran them aground only three hours out of port.

Silver continued to make light conversation, which Geneva and Thomas participated in politely but sporadically, until he was clearly about to ask if they were going aboard, or still waiting for someone. It was then, with excellent timing, that a cart pulled up by the docks, and Madi Scott stepped off, dressed for traveling. She strode down the quay, affecting not to see Silver at all, as she reached Geneva and clasped her hand. "Are we prepared?"

"M – Madi." For once, even the unshakeable John Silver seemed slightly rattled. "I was not – aware you had come to see us off."

Madi gave him a cool look, as if to say that he was perfectly bloody aware that she had not come merely to see them off, and playing stupid did not suit him. "I don't suppose you were."

Silver was clearly also aware that complaining about being outwitted would be the greatest incidence of the parable of the pot and kettle to ever apply, and thus bit his tongue, though he did not look pleased. He was left with nothing to do but offer Madi a gracious hand into the rowboat, the pair of them exchanging a brief, subtle look that made Geneva think that much as their personal and emotional relationship might have soured, they were still considerably and deeply attracted to each other, and that any fight was as likely to end with kissing as with slapping. Not that this would alter anything in the long run, but if Silver was too enmeshed with Flint to relinquish it comfortably, so was he with Madi. This was going to be very interesting indeed.

They reached the _Rose_ and clambered over the side, as Geneva paid the boatman and debated over the berthing arrangements. She and Thomas had shared the captain's cabin on the way out, and while she did not want to oblige Thomas to spend yet more time with Silver, she also thought it might not be the worst thing for them to attempt to find some common ground, over Flint or otherwise. So she sent them to the lieutenants' bunks, slightly set apart from the main crew hammocks, which she had converted into a makeshift second cabin, and took Madi into the captain's quarters with her. Then she went back on deck to ensure everything was in place for their departure, unable to repress a pang of disappointment that they were leaving again so swiftly. Perhaps there really was nothing else to be found on the island, and they had only been sent here to embark upon this as the actual adventure, but still.

Geneva silently crossed her fingers that her uncle's letters would reach her parents in Savannah, and the Nolans in Charlestown, and that he would be wise enough to take due precautions in sending them. Letters, especially those from important correspondents, could routinely be opened and re-sealed half a dozen times before reaching their destination, especially in wartime with the competing English and Spanish intelligence networks scrambling to intercept each other, and she would just have to hope that the apparently mundane dispatches of an ordinary Nassau merchant manager would seem too boring to be worth it. Not to mention that if those letters did not make it, their family would be very worried when she and Thomas failed to return after their promised fortnight. That could lead to something – well, rash.

However, none of this was under Geneva's control, and as she would need all her wits to survive at least three weeks at sea with John Silver and come out the other end without any (or at least any major) catastrophes, she decided to focus on what she could. She ordered the anchor up and the sails raised; the wind was good, at least, and she was more or less confident of her calculations from the charts, but went them over one more time just in case. Better to spot a mistake now than when they were well out in the Atlantic, but at this point, she was still expecting to end up in London instead of, say, Timbuktu. After that, they would just have to see.

Geneva took a final look at Nassau over her shoulder as the _Rose_ began to pick up speed, passing between the prows of the headland and toward the open water beyond. She was still far from sure that this was not a terrible mistake, but that was a part of the allure. Of the two younger Swan-Jones children, she was generally seen as the settled and responsible one, whereas her fat-headed little brother was the adventurous (and rather flighty) one, but she possessed the same deep-grained desire for it as the rest of the family, and this was her first real chance to find it. Whatever was out there, whatever was coming, she would meet it on her terms. And whenever she returned, she would not be mistaken for merely some wealthy heiress larking on her father's ship. Oh no. Captain Geneva Jones would write a few legends of her own.

Geneva glanced over the sea one more time, smiled to herself, and went below.

* * *

Sam did not sleep much for the next several days. Despite the appearance of friendship he had managed to forge with his captors, mostly by reminding them of that large pot of treasure which would very soon be theirs if they played their cards right, he was not about to forget that letting his guard down, or sharing too much information, could very easily lead to them deciding to cut out the middleman, and deliver this dazzling news to Güemes themselves, thus enabling them to take all the credit. Given as they kept trying to get him to drop seemingly innocuous details, often after having plied him with generous portions of whatever godawful grog they drank on this tub of swill, Sam could not help but suspect that was exactly what Da Souza was after. See if this brash English lad with his big stories about convenient family connections and vast lost fortunes could be trusted an inch, or was merely spinning shit out of his arse to avoid some unpleasant demise. They also separated him and Nathaniel whenever they did this, so Sam guessed they were questioning them independently, seeing if stories or claims matched up. Leave it to him to fall into the hands of the one small-time, no-account Portuguese trading vessel where the captain was a bloody evil genius. He had been confident, almost smug, in his ability to outsmart this lot, but he was no longer quite so sure.

At least the wind had been good. They were deep in Spanish waters, and if it stayed steady, would be arriving in Havana no later than tomorrow morning. That meant, therefore, that tonight was Sam's last chance to decide if he really wanted to come ashore with this lot. There was the fact that if he and Nathaniel washed up on Cuban shores by themselves, they would probably be shot long before they could remotely cadge an audience with the governor, and at least Da Souza could provide some apparent legitimacy to their presence. The obvious explanation for the captain of a no-account supply tub being so good at political wheeling and dealing, therefore. . .

. . . was that this was not a no-account supply tub, that these were not merely some enterprising rustic fishermen who had decided to seize the boys in hopes of a score, and Sam had just confided some extremely dangerous and consequential information to the head of a Spanish spy network. Indeed it was not out of the question that the man he was after, Montiano's agent taking the intelligence to Havana, was also on board, posing as one of the crew, and that it was only a debate of whether they shot Sam before or after they made sure he delivered it safely. They seemed to have satisfied themselves that Nathaniel did not know anything useful, as they had resorted to only questioning Sam, and that night at supper, which Da Souza seemed to know was a guaranteed way to get Sam to turn up, the Portuguese captain said, "So, my friend. Between us. What did your grandfather tell you about this Skeleton Island?"

Sam chewed his chicken leg, thinking that it was news to him that they were friends now. "Not much. Just that there's still half the treasure there, from the haul Vane and Jennings stole." He had never met either pirate, as they had both died several years before he was born – Vane hanged in Nassau by Robert Gold, and Jennings killed in Charlestown by his uncle Liam, a subject the family did not like to speak of. However, he knew that both of them, particularly Jennings, had been infamous for brutality, feared across the Caribbean, and that while Vane had been an ally to the pirates' cause despite his personal hatred for Flint, Jennings had been a terror of pure destruction, only out for himself and his own enrichment, a mortal enemy whose memory still haunted them from beyond the grave. "And since that was twenty-five years ago, it would now be worth as much as, what, the whole 1715 lost treasure fleet?"

"Perhaps." Da Souza took a sip. "So much money just sitting there, a man like your grandfather, and he never went back to fetch it?"

"Well," Sam said. "It was a long time ago. It probably sank with the _Walrus."_

"But earlier you said that, while not much, he did tell you something." Da Souza considered him mildly. "How old are you, Samuel Jones?"

"I, er." Sam sensed a trap, but he wasn't sure of what sort. "Nineteen."

"So you were born in – 1720? 1721? And your grandfather was reported to be hanged in Savannah in – 1724, I believe was the first time, yes? So for you to remember anything he said to you at the age of three, that would be quite remarkable."

"Yeah," Sam said. "It was memorable."

"Unless of course, that was not your grandfather then, but at one of the later dates?" At last, Da Souza seemed to have dropped the pretense that he was only the master of a humble trading tender. He leaned forward, eyes intent. "1729, Port Royal? 1732, Barbados? 1737, Wapping? Or the most recent one, 1739, Virginia? That is at least five times men claiming to be Captain Flint have been captured, questioned, and executed. All of them had some wild tale about Skeleton Island that transpired to only be fantasy. If none of them were your grandfather, of course, that would explain it. Or are you merely the next in this line of liars, Samuel?"

Sam's eyes flickered to Da Souza's eating knife, which lay casually close to his right hand, in case he was about to pick it up and insist on better answers. "I don't – "

"Let me be clear." The captain leaned back in his chair, crossing his boots. "Yours is not an unfamiliar tale. Every so often we have someone come along and promise to lead us to the lost 1715 treasure. None of them ever have. So tell me, then, why I should believe you will?"

Sam's throat was dry, but taking a drink would seem too obvious, show that he was starting to crack. He had a definite sense that his and Nathaniel's chances of getting off this boat alive hung on how carefully he chose his response. Finally he said, "You're no fisherman."

"You are wrong. I am a fisherman, among other things." Da Souza smiled. "Though fishing is only part of what they pay me for. I am a trusted servant to the captain-general. I can have you in front of Güemes tomorrow. Or you can lie to me one more time, and go overboard tonight."

Well then. That was rather clear, as such things went. Vying for an appearance of control, Sam mirrored the captain's unconcerned posture. "My grandfather isn't – "

"Perhaps you would like your friend to go first?" Da Souza raised an eyebrow. "There are sharks in these waters, you know. You could watch."

Sam grimaced. Nathaniel could be a right pain in the backside, sure, but they had been friends since the age of six, and getting her brother chucked off a boat and eaten by sharks was not any way to convince Isabelle to improve her opinion of him. "Fine," he said at last. "None of the Captain Flints they've killed have been my grandfather, no."

"That is good to know." Da Souza nodded cordially. "Unless, is as rumored, he has nine lives?"

Given his grandfather's previous escapades (and escapes), this was not out of the possibility in Sam's opinion, but probably not relevant to the question. "I don't think he does, no."

"And when did you last see him?"

Sam hesitated. "Three years ago," he lied. That seemed close enough to prove that Flint had been alive fairly recently, but not enough to mean that he had any useful intelligence.

"Where did you see him?"

"Here and there. Around."

Da Souza smiled, revealing a slightly pointed canine. "Does your friend want to go swimming?"

"Georgia." Sam felt a stab of disloyalty, a terrible anxiety that despite taking on this mission to protect his family, he was single-handedly endangering them instead. It was – at least for the moment – still an English territory, so it wasn't as if the Spaniards could just send in a squadron to drag Flint out by his heels. Not that they would not try. God, he hoped Oglethorpe wasn't being chased up the coast by the Spanish invasion. "It wasn't a long visit. He wasn't in good health." This was true, only insofar as Flint had nearly cut his thumb off while chopping wood during that visit, and was in a grumpier mood than usual. "He could be dead now, I don't know."

"Surely someone would have sent word if that was the case?" Da Souza drummed his fingers lightly on the table. "Unless you were too far away to risk it reaching you?"

Since this sounded like a slightly less certain fish for information, and Sam was not about to give up anything unless directly confronted with it, he settled for smiling unhelpfully. He watched Da Souza consider what question to ask him next, supposed bitterly that trying to strangle him with a napkin would not work, and thought as well that Nathaniel had been right when he insisted at the outset that he did not trust the bugger. But since Sam was the one used to taking the lead and making the decisions in their adventures, and Nathaniel always came along after a token protest or two, he hadn't seen it as a reason to jump ship right then. _If you don't get him killed by Spanish spies or sharks or God bloody knows what, maybe you should try listening to him more._

"You were not abroad simply in hopes of telling someone about Skeleton Island," Da Souza said at last. "And you came from the direction of the English camp. Did Oglethorpe send you?"

"No," Sam said. "I deserted. Just like I told your men the first time. Half of them probably don't know you work for Güemes, do they? If not all of them. No reason to risk that cat getting out of the bag, when the quality of their information depends on not having to ask them to act innocent. They might slip up, say something inadvertent, boast about it in their drink. Easier if they just never know. And several of them wanted to make the Spaniards pay a ridiculous price for me, or not sell me back at all, so I don't think they're as loyal to Madrid's cause as you. Might feel a bit cheated, in fact, to learn that they'd been assisting it all along. Be a shame if someone accidentally yelled it, when, say, they were trying to drown my friend?"

That caught Da Souza, for the first time, by surprise. He was not slow to take Sam's implication, and a look of anger flashed across his face – followed by an even more misleadingly genial smile. "You're not quite as stupid as I thought, are you?"

"Thanks," Sam said. "I think."

"Very well, then. We understand each other. We can make a bargain, like gentlemen." Da Souza reached for the decanter and poured Sam another glass. "You give me more information, I can return the favor. For example, we helped smuggle someone out of the Castillo San Marcos a few hours before we caught you – one of Governor Montiano's agents. Coincidentally, also bound for Havana. You would not be looking for this man by any chance, would you?"

Sam's heart lurched. "Dunno," he said, casually as he could. "Why would I be?"

"You would not be, of course," Da Souza acknowledged. "If you were simply an English deserter. If you were not, well. Then you might have more interest."

Sam debated whether to take the risk, as he had a sense that despite threatening to feed him to sharks and/or any other number of picturesque fates, Da Souza rather liked him, and had just enough incentive as a Portuguese sailor that while he might be serving the Spaniards faithfully, there was a certain amount of room for other interests – namingly, himself – to be satisfied. Finally Sam said, as offhandedly as possible, "Could be I want to talk to him, yes."

"Ah." Da Souza looked as if he thought this might be the case. "Well, he went ahead on the other boat. Likely we will both be arriving in Havana at the same time. I can tell you more, but I would expect repayment in kind."

Sam was not quite so desperate to catch the bastard as to pay for it with sensitive information about his family, though his heart did lurch again at the thought that he might still have a shot at it. "Make me an offer," he said, striving to sound cool and authoritative. "I keep my mouth shut to your men about your little side job with Güemes, and you – aside from not using myself and my friend for chum, obviously – do what?"

"Don't forget," Da Souza said, "you tell me about Skeleton Island."

"I've told you everything I know." Sam let a bit of his irritation show, as this was the truth. "You know my grandfather's the real Flint, so you can trust it's the truth. So – "

"Your grandfather _is_ the real Flint?" Of course Da Souza had caught that slip, fuck him. "So he is definitely still alive?"

"I didn't say that."

"Of course you did not." The captain carried on looking disconcertingly smug. "Very well. I will take you and that dim-witted sidekick of yours ashore in Havana tomorrow. Once you have told Governor Güemes everything you have told me, you will be free to go. If you can find the man you are looking for, that is for you to sort out. If your intelligence proves fruitful for the Spanish crown, it will be remembered. If it does not. . . that will be remembered as well."

This did not sound like a terribly reassuring proposal to Sam, but he was also not certain how to leverage a better one, and at least it assured them of living through the night, as well as having a shot to catch up to the Spanish agent. That, strictly speaking, was all he needed to do. Oglethorpe had charged him to prevent the intelligence from being delivered, but if it was, well, Sam could not be faulted for trying his best. There could be a chance of crossing paths, of overhearing something valuable in return (assuming his shit Spanish was up to the task, which was doubtful) or something else to please the governor even if Sam failed in his original objective. Besides, Oglethorpe was likely to have bigger problems at the moment than hunting down his family.

"Fine," Sam said again. "It's a deal."

Once he had grudgingly shaken Da Souza's hand and returned to his quarters belowdecks, thus to find Nathaniel snoring in a pile of grain sacks, he felt a brief and unaccountable resentment that protecting his friend had forced him to give up so much information on his family. He was not, of course, about to do anything differently, as they were in this together as they had been since they were boys, but to barely sleep these three days and try to think his way out of Da Souza's traps and be the one whose neck was decidedly on the line if this went bad, then to come here and find Nathaniel in blissful slumber. . . it was just frustrating, was all. Sam settled himself down with a small huff, watching the boards rock above him, and tried to quiet his restless thoughts. He'd need all his wits and then some for tomorrow.

Despite himself, he must have finally dropped under, because when he opened his eyes, pale-grey light was leaking through the cracks above, he heard talk and pounding feet, and once he had crawled into the bow to peer out the eyelet, he could see that they had just entered the narrow strip of water between the imposing stone watchtowers built to protect Havana bay, the capital of Nueva España and the formidable heart of the Spanish Indies. The Bourbon coat of arms and the Cross of Burgundy flew over the headland, and as they drew closer to the harbor walls, Sam could spot Spanish _caballeros_ in their belted blue jackets and broad-brimmed hats, pacing the ramparts with muskets at the ready. Heavy cannon poked their iron snouts through the crenels, and the half-dozen men-o'war at anchor, sails blazoned with matching red crosses, could have blasted the tender boat sky-high with a single volley. Sam took a moment to be grateful that he had not gone ahead with the half-baked plan of jumping overboard and swimming here. Clearly the Spaniards did not, especially when war was involved, fuck about in the least degree.

That reminded him of the difficulty of what he was going to try to pull off in hostile territory, and once they had been approved as a friendly vessel and allowed to tie up at the quay, Da Souza appeared with rather too much excitement for Sam's liking. He and Nathaniel shouldered their packs and followed the captain onto the docks, glancing from side to side as they walked. Sam had to admit it was very beautiful. Red-tiled roofs and white-washed buildings, clay churches with wooden crosses and bronze bells, palm trees and sparkling fountains, colored mosaics and gated villas, merchants and animals and sailors and servants and the other traffic of any port. Nobody who looked like the Spaniard who had been shooting at him in St. Augustine, not that Sam expected it to be easy to find him. He reminded himself that he had no actual _proof_ that that was who had couriered the intelligence here, but it didn't matter. Just thought that was the bugger. No real reason why.

They climbed the steep, filth-splattered cobbles to the top of the hill, where the captain-general's elegant mansion held pride of place. They passed through the gates (more guards, more guns) and were admitted into a cool foyer, where Nathaniel was showed off into a side room by a maidservant. Sam might have thought this was a gesture of hospitality, if not for the fact that he knew it was a warning. He was going to visit Güemes by himself, and if for any reason the man became suspicious of his story, he changed something he had already told Da Souza, or otherwise demonstrated himself untrustworthy, Nathaniel would be killed on the spot.

Sam was shown into a smaller parlor, lavishly furnished but bloody hot and stuffy as Satan's own drawing room, and told to wait while someone went to see if the captain-general had finished the morning business and was available for an audience. The divan was upholstered in extremely slippery red-gold silk, which Sam kept sliding off every time he tried to sit on it, and besides, he was broiling alive. So he got up and went to see if the windows could be opened, and was annoyed that the locks appeared to be fat little naked cherubims. He just wanted a bit of a breeze, not to palm some statue of a baby's arse, and was cursing the proclivity of the Spaniards to go overboard on the Catholic theme when he heard the door open behind him. Figuring it was the servant returning, Sam immediately let go of the cherubim's nether aspects and whirled around, flashing a winning smile. _"Buenos días, soy_ – "

At that, and all at once, his voice dried up in his throat. He wanted to say something else, but he just made an odd croaking noise instead. Well, then. Well. It was definitely him. Fucking hell.

For his part, the Spaniard seemed just as surprised to walk into a room at the captain-general's residence in Havana, preparing to deliver his intelligence free as you pleased, and instead being confronted by the English soldier he'd been taking potshots at, back in St. Augustine. At this close range, Sam could see that the other man was not much older than him, twenty-three or twenty-four, and he also wore his hair in a long black ponytail, with a half-healed scar on his cheek and a dark shadow of unshaven stubble. In fact, there was something almost damnably familiar about him, though Sam had no idea what. The greatest shock, however, came when the Spaniard opened his mouth and said in an English accent, "You?!"

" _You?!"_ Sam thought that the surprise was damn well entitled to go both ways. "Bloody hell, wait. You're English?"

"No," the newcomer snapped. "Born there, unavoidably, but I left all loyalty to them behind long ago. Not that it is any of your business. How the fuck did you get here?"

"None of your business either, is it?" Sam was quite taken off guard for the who-knew-how-many-th time in the recent week or so, and he was over it, really. "You were the one trying to shoot me. Back in Florida. I promise I didn't _volunteer_ to give you more practice."

"It's war. Of course I was trying to shoot you."

Sam supposed he could not, at its essence, argue with this, although he continued to wonder why he had had that sense of such familiarity – and hatred. That whatever quarrel this was, it was personal. Still, though, he didn't have time for that. "You haven't seen Güemes yet either, have you?" He wondered briefly if they had been put in the same room on purpose, the Spaniards sitting back to watch them brawl it out and see who got the honor of an audience, but that was probably too much of a stretch. "You haven't told him – whatever you're supposed to tell him, the letter you were carrying from Montiano."

"And?"

"Well," Sam said. "It's a bit awkward, really. But I can't let you do that."

"Oh, you can't?"

"No. So if you'd just like to hand it over to me instead, that'd be easiest."

The other man stared at him, then barked an incredulous laugh. "Wait. Did you actually think that was going to work?"

"Nothing to be lost by asking, was there?" Sam thought fast, or at least he tried. His adversary was several years older and several inches taller, but he could still punch him if he needed to. Grabbing the letter, he could probably also manage that. It was the "retrieve Nathaniel, break out of the governor's mansion, and escape through the streets of Havana while not being shot by a lot of very angry Spanish soldiers" part of the plan that was the problem. "Look. Believe me, I am no cozy chum of the English crown either. In fact, they'll do something bad to my family if I don't get that letter before Güemes sees it, and I'd really rather they didn't."

Muted surprise flickered in the other's dark eyes. "You were fighting with them."

"Yes," Sam said impatiently. "I was. It's complicated, all right? But like I said, I definitely did not volunteer for this. My family – "

"I don't care about your family."

"Well, I do." Sam shot a look at the door, wondering if someone was listening on the other side. "And since, as I said, it's the English who'd be punishing them, and you're very insistent about hating them, I think you'd be a bit of a hypocrite, frankly. If that was so."

"Why would the English punish your family?"

"I don't know." Sam turned back to him frankly. "Why'd they punish yours?"

It was just a guess, a stab in the dark, trying to come up with a motive for why another young Englishman would have conceived such a burning hatred against his native land so as to take up in active service of their mortal enemies, but something about the way the other flinched told Sam that he had struck a bit too close to the mark. His family's reasons for falling out with England were, of course, of a certain and specific breed, and at that moment, a sudden, unformed suspicion crossed Sam's mind. But before he could get around to clarifying it or voicing it, the door opened again, and someone who looked like Güemes' aide stuck his head in. "Señors? If you will come with me?"

Sam and the Spanish agent – he still hadn't gotten a name, not that he thought it would be the real one if he did – did a double take, looked at each other, and then back at the aide, as if to ask if he knew that they needed to see Güemes for exactly opposite reasons, and that if one of them started to speak, the other would resort to vigorous and inadvertently comical efforts to shut them up. But that appeared to be inconsequential, judging from the expectant look the aide was giving them, and so they were forced to snap their mouths shut, step forward, and embark on the world's most awkward stroll down the corridor, through a set of handsomely carved double doors, and into the office on the far side. It had a broad balcony overlooking the harbor, an unlit chandelier dangling crystal droplets, an ornate claw-footed desk with several high-backed red velvet chairs, and the usual clutter of an overworked colonial official with too many things to do and not enough time, or hands, to do them. The official in question – Don Juan Francisco de Güemes y Horcasitas, governor of Havana, captain-general of Cuba, and the highest-ranking Spanish dignitary in the Caribbean – turned from the window and said, "Ah. Yes."

The two young men exchanged a further baffled look, both obviously wondering if one of them should speak up and correct the governor before this got, if such a thing was possible, even more awkward. Güemes was a severe-looking man of about sixty, with a curled silver wig, prominent dark eyebrows, and a Bourbon nose, a career public servant whose hereto impeccable reputation for loyalty, fairness, and efficiency had gotten him appointed to this lofty post. He wore an elaborately brocaded red waistcoat, a blue silk jacket with ruffled cuffs and bronze lace, breeches and silver-buckled shoes, and regarded the decidedly less impressive sartorial ensembles of his guests with clear but considerately unspoken judgment. He beckoned them to take the chairs across from his desk, and looked surprised and slightly suspicious when neither of them moved. "Is there a difficulty, gentlemen?"

"Ah – _Excelencia?"_ The agent coughed. "Which of us exactly are you expecting to see?"

"I was informed that there was important intelligence for me to receive from Governor Montiano in St. Augustine, and from a man that Captain da Souza picked up there as well. That is you?" The governor glanced skeptically between them. "A pair of Englishmen? I am very curious to hear this story, though I am not certain I should believe it."

" _Excelencia."_ The agent inclined his head. "You can trust me, I swear. Montiano gave me this letter himself, concerning the future plans of the British army after their humiliating defeat at St. Augustine. See – " He added something in rapid Spanish which Sam did not understand, probably a passcode or secret phrase or something, because it made Güemes relax slightly. There was then a hideous pause as the governor held out his hand, waiting to be given it, and the agent, seeing Sam eyeing him like a hawk and prepared to pounce if he took it out, stalled.

" _Madre de Díos,_ what is wrong with the pair of you?" Güemes demanded, once more back on high alert about this whole utterly bizarre situation. He looked, in fact, on the point of calling for his guards, which would be a very bad thing indeed. "Did you steal the letter from Montiano's actual courier and torture the password out of him? I swear, if this is some English trick to plant misinformation or waste my time, neither of you will live long enough to – "

"My name is Jack," the agent interrupted hastily. "You can ask any of Montiano's men, they know me."

"Jack?" Güemes did not look particularly mollified, even as Sam noted it with interest. "Well then. Give me the letter, and we'll see."

"I. . .. cannot do that, _Excelencia_."

"And why in hellfire not?"

Jack nodded at Sam. "Because I fear he might try to snatch it, _Excelencia."_

Güemes swung on Sam with renewed mistrust. "And you will claim that you too are an English-born Spanish agent? I don't think – "

"You're right," Sam said. "I'm not. I'm also not a deserter, which is what I told Captain da Souza and his men. I was sent by Governor James Oglethorpe of Georgia, to prevent that intelligence from reaching you. Hence why our mate Jack here is being dodgy about giving it to you, since he thinks I'll try to jump on him. Frankly, I probably would. But I'm open to suggestions."

"Are you drunk?" Güemes sniffed the air as if in search of a telltale whiff of alcohol. "If you _were_ from Oglethorpe, why would you ever come out and – "

"Because Oglethorpe blackmailed me." Sam had no idea what exactly he was doing, but it was keeping them both off balance and with nothing to say, and he was going to have to improvise like all hell to get out of this anyway. "If I didn't stop that letter from getting to you, my family would pay the price for it. Well, sir. Just so you know, you don't want that to happen."

"I don't, do I?" Güemes could not have been more skeptical if Sam had wrapped up in a bedsheet, put a saucer on his head, and told him he was the Pope. "Why not?"

Sam looked at him straight. "Because Captain Flint's my grandfather."

That got a noticeable reaction out of not just Güemes, but surprisingly, Jack as well. Probably the only sensible reaction to such an outlandish statement, but there was something else too. Sam clearly did not need to explain who Flint was to either one, as one rarely had to in the Caribbean, and Güemes must have spent plenty of time brooding over plots to uncover the truth of him. He stared at Sam with the same startled expression that had generally been the norm, blinked, then demanded, "The man who stole our treasure? Why on earth would that be a good thing?"

"Technically," Sam pointed out, feeling obliged to defend his grandfather's dubious honor, "he didn't steal it. He just borrowed it after it had already been stolen."

"Aside from the forty thousand dollars he _did_ steal before that?"

"Yes, well." Sam coughed. "Aside from that."

"The robbery of the salvage camp by the scoundrels Vane and Jennings is well known," Güemes went on, "but the pirate captains Flint and Bellamy robbed it first, and disabled our warship, the _Nuestra Señora Santa María de la Asuncíon_. Is this the lineage you commend to me?"

Sam was aware of that family story, as his mother and godfather had distracted the _Asuncíon_ by getting the men drunk before blowing up its mizzenmast, while his grandfather performed a smash-and-grab of the treasure chests on the beach, but he decided it was best not to find it as funny as he usually did. He also noticed that Jack had an extremely odd look on his face, but now was not the time for questions. Instead he looked back at the governor, as coolly as he could. "Captain da Souza told me to tell you what I told him, so I did. No reason to call me a liar. As to whether it's the real Flint, well, da Souza took care of the questions on that end. Aye, it is. And I'm guessing getting back that money would be a big help for Spain, wouldn't it?"

Güemes' mouth was still open, so he shut it. He whirled away, had to pour himself a stiff tot of brandy, and drink it before he ventured a response to this extraordinary proposal. Finally he said, "Even given that any of that is at all true, you'd lead us to it. . . why?"

"I'm not loyal to England." Sam shrugged. "I'm not loyal to Spain either. One of you will likely win this war, though, and when that happens, I'd like to see it sure that my family will be safe. I work for Oglethorpe now, that builds me some goodwill on the English side. I help you find your biggest lost treasure stash, a triumph on all sorts of levels – well, that should build me some goodwill on the Spanish side, shouldn't it?"

"Or we can hang you as a petty thief and public nuisance," Güemes pointed out, with considerable asperity. "If the fate of your forbearers is truly what you aspire to."

"What have I done?" Sam asked. "What crime have I committed, exactly? I didn't think that coming here and offering to solve one of your longest-running mysteries was one."

That, despite himself, Güemes had no good answer for. His thin lips turned even more severe, he took another sip of brandy, and paced back and forth across the office. Clearly, as much as he hankered to bring down the hammer on Sam for being, if nothing else, so utterly brazen and annoying, his own goose would be cooked if word got back to Madrid that he had finally had a viable lead to recover the lost riches of 1715 fall into his lap, and arrogantly threw it away. Finally he said, "You would want a deal, yes?"

"Yes." Sam was tired of standing, and since somebody should take advantage of those chairs, he sat down and put his boots up on Güemes' desk. Just on the carved bit, not on any of the papers. "Full protection from the Spanish crown for my family, whichever way the war goes, and a percentage of the treasure recovered. We don't need much. Just, say, ten percent."

"You would ask us to give our own money back to the pirates who took it in the first place?"

"Well," Sam pointed out, "seems to me, without us, you won't get any of it back at all. But maybe that's more useful, I don't know."

"You are a very insolent boy."

"Runs in the family." Sam could not deny that despite everything, he was starting to enjoy himself. His grandfather would either be pleased that he was finally developing some piratical abilities, or furious that he was proposing to let Spain recover the wreck of the _Walrus_ and her priceless cargo. _At least theoretically._ There was a large amount of water between here and there, in any sense of the word. He still had only a vague idea of where Skeleton Island even was, much less if the treasure was recoverable, and Spain was not about to appreciate being further played for a fool by pirates, especially these pirates. And yet. Needs must.

Güemes chewed over this for a tenuous moment. Then he swung on a startled-looking Jack, who had clearly been hoping to be forgotten about. "You. You claim to be a loyal servant of the Spanish crown, no matter your own English blood and heritage?"

Jack blinked. "I. . . I do, _Excelencia."_

"Very good," Güemes said, with grim satisfaction. "You will go with him, then. If you succeed in this, I will no longer doubt you, and you will receive the same generous settlement as him. If not, then. . ." He shrugged. "Much will also depend on whether the intelligence you brought is good, as regards the future plans of the British. I will take that letter now."

Jack hesitated, then reached into his jacket and removed the letter, rather crumpled and battered, but still sealed with an unbroken dollop of scarlet wax and the Bourbon crest. Sam tensed, but could not stop it, as Güemes opened it, read it, and frowned. Then he said, "The Navy is planning a full-scale invasion of Cartagena? Thirty ships of the line, ten thousand men?"

"That is what the prisoners said, yes." Jack nodded, as Sam struggled to look as if this was not news to him either. Cartagena de Indias was the largest city on the Spanish Main, the beating heart of Spain's Pacific and Atlantic trade alike, and thus a favored target for repeated conquest attempts by the British over the years, none of which had been yet entirely successful. To commit thirty rated ships and a huge attack force meant the sharp escalation of the war, and – if the Spanish had not been forewarned – possibly a fatal one. They would have to scramble to get sufficient resources in place to meet the threat, but they still could. For the moment.

Güemes considered for a long moment, lips pursed. Then he folded up the letter, scraped off the old seal, and poured fresh wax in its place, incising it with his signet ring. He held it out to Sam with a look expecting him to take it, and, quite baffled, Sam did. _"Excelencia. . .?"_

"There," Güemes said. "To all appearances, and if the English ask, you have intercepted the letter before I read it. You can hand it back and retain their trust. For both of you, however, your chief charge is to discern the precise location of Skeleton Island, and to convey that information to me as swiftly as possible. To ascertain that you do not forget your task or treat it lightly, your friend – Nathaniel, his name is? – will remain here, as my honored guest. If, however, you do not return in six months, with either the treasure or the full coordinates of the island, that will be. . . re-evaluated."

Sam flinched. _"Excelencia,_ that will not be – "

"I think so, yes," Güemes went on, as if he had not spoken. "If Captain Flint is your grandfather, and if he is still alive, surely it would be a question of simply sailing home and asking him for the bearings? Six months is quite generous, though we must allow some space for potential difficulties or delays engendered by the war. But then, your grandfather would wish to know what you were doing, and there is, of course, the possibility that without any charts, he does not remember the location either. In that case, six months might be somewhat tighter."

"I – "

"Six months," Güemes repeated. "And since you will need, of course, a ship and a crew, I will see to it that Captain Da Souza is given a suitable vessel. That, I think, should be the final piece to ensure your cooperation. Yes?"

Sam had to bite his tongue, as his first reaction to the thought of spending more time with that bastard was not suitable to be uttered in polite company, even for him. But since Da Souza was at least someone he could work with, if in an arse-backwards way, he nodded. "Yes," he said tightly. "It's a bargain."

"Good." Güemes held out his hand. "I look forward to doing business."

Dusk was falling by the time they finally made it out of the governor's mansion. "They" in this case meant not Sam and Nathaniel, as they had arrived, but Sam and Jack, his enigmatic and clearly unwilling new ally, who had not stopped casting Sam silent and judgmental sidelong looks since they left. This had been a habit shared by Nathaniel, who was justifiably aghast to hear that he was stuck in Havana as a hostage for the foreseeable future, and that Sam had gotten himself mixed up in the devil of a mess without him. "So I'm supposed to sit here and what, learn the rosary while you go off to find an island that you don't know where it is and a treasure that might be bloody hundreds of feet sunken or lost or God knows? That's just bloody wonderful."

"Shh!" Sam had not wanted anyone to go overhearing that just yet. "I know it's, well, a bit of a flimsy plan, but I'm trying to protect you, all right? You and everyone else."

"Why do our plans somehow always involve you doing something stupid while I have to sit back and wait until it's over?" Nathaniel sighed. "You know I trust you, Sam. Despite all good evidence to the contrary, at times. But this is pushing it."

"I. . . know." Sam couldn't pretend not to be aware of the danger he was in, and which he had deliberately and consciously increased, even in the name of ensuring protection for his family no matter who won the war. "Learn Spanish, court some beautiful señoritas, take up, I don't know, pinochle. But I'll be back, I'll get you out of here, and we'll go home. Swear."

Nathaniel looked at him with the expression of the boy who had followed Sam up tall trees, down dark caves and through fast rivers, out to sea, along the marsh, and every sort of adventure in between. He had broken or cut or sprained several limbs, nearly sneezed himself to death, been sunburned the color of a radish, got bitten by an alligator, stuck in a salt flat in a rising tide, and suffered all the other bodily injury that being friends with Sam Jones entailed, and barely ever complained about it. He was always there for the next adventure, and to let Sam choose it, even knowing how it might end up, and Sam was forced to wonder if he had taken advantage of that too much, simply knowing that Nathaniel would go along because that was the way of things. "Hey," he said again. "I'll get us out of it."

"You always say that," Nathaniel pointed out, with a wry grin. "Although, admittedly, you usually do. Fine, then. I'll stay here. But if you let me die, I'm killing you."

With a final promise that he wouldn't, Sam had taken his leave, the words still whirling in his head as he descended the street next to Jack. After catching one too many of those furtive looks aimed in his direction, and never being someone with much patience for deception and concealment and dishonesty (also rather to the dismay of his spectacularly manipulative grandfather), Sam stopped short and said, "Do I have a huge spider on my face, or are you just staring because I'm that pretty a bloke? Because if neither, you can stop."

A faint flush touched Jack's sun-browned face. He appeared to be mulling several possible responses to that, but then said abruptly, "Captain Flint is your grandfather?"

"Yeah, mate. I've told the whole Caribbean now or thereabouts, I should just write it up on a piece of paper and stick it to my forehead." Sam kicked a broken paving stone. "Why?"

"They were friends, weren't they? Flint and Bellamy?"

From what he had heard – rarely directly, as the subject of his godfather remained a sensitive one – Sam reckoned that his grandparents and Captain Bellamy had been quite a bit more than friends. "They were. Like Güemes said, took down the _Asuncíon_ and had a few other adventures, fought in the pirates' war against Woodes Rogers and Robert Gold. Bellamy was killed, though, in a storm off Cape Cod, he never – "

"I know." It seemed as if Jack had not quite meant to say so, but could not stop himself. "Sam Bellamy is – was – my uncle. We never saw any of that money he made. It all drowned with him. I was barely a year old when it happened."

"You're his – " Sam stared. "His nephew?"

Jack nodded curtly. "He had four older sisters. My mother was the youngest of these. The Crown punished us for having a pirate in the family, took what little we did have left. While you got to grow up rich and happy and untroubled by any of it, didn't you?"

"Hey. I didn't have any choice in my life, same as you." Sam had never met his namesake, who had died several years before he was born, but his parents always spoke of Sam Bellamy's kindness, his strength in facing the darkness that had just as much reason to claw into him as anyone, but which he never let get a foothold, never allowed it to change him from the good and generous and fearless soul he was. Yet now, the younger Sam had the oddest feeling that he was staring at a Bellamy who had not been able to resist it, had less ability to say no to it. Who possessed the same gifts of person and charm and talent and disregard for the rules, but who did not temper it with Black Sam's mercy and chivalry and wisdom. Not an evil man, not even necessarily a bad one, but absolutely a dangerous one, and one who, despite their tender, tangled, half-familial, half-intimate connection, clearly did not feel any inherent loyalty or affection to Sam, who sprang from the exact same pirate stock but had seemed to avoid all the suffering that came with it. _I will have to keep my eyes open around him._

"So," Sam said at last, when the two of them continued to stare at each other. "Jack Bellamy, is it? Or some other surname?"

"My father was. . ." Jack's lips went thinner. "Never mind. It's that, yes. But I tend to go by Jack Bell. The full name is. . . conspicuous."

"Sam Jones. I don't think we've actually been introduced." Sam held out his hand. "Pleasure."

Jack's dark gaze flickered. It was plain that he could guess where this name had come from, but just as plain that this did not necessarily give him any warmer feelings toward the partner in crime he had somehow been stuck with. For that matter, Sam wasn't sure if Jack admired his uncle and viewed him as a model for defiance of unjust English tyranny, or as a selfish, flighty git who had taken himself off to be a pirate and never thought about how it might affect his family on their poor farm back home, vulnerable to any reprisals the vengeful Crown cared to exact for his outlawry and rebellion. Jack, after all, had not decided to be a pirate; he had joined the Spanish. His uncle's legacy was not something he seemed particularly proud of.

The atmosphere remained tense for a moment longer. Then Jack smiled, not entirely reassuringly, and shook Sam's hand. "Aye," he said. "Pleasure."


	4. IV

It was close to dawn by the time they reached the house, searched it up and down for any skulking killers, and settled Flint and Miranda into Sam's currently unused bedroom, but nobody felt like sleeping. They congregated at the kitchen table as Emma cooked breakfast, everyone glancing up sharply at any small noises, and Killian poured the coffee, trying to think how in damnation to go about making any sense of this. Presumably, whoever had paid for the assassins would be suspicious when they failed to return, and what was more, they had posed as applicants for the household positions. That either meant someone on the packet boat had read Emma's mail, decided it was time to go ahead with the hit, and used it as a convenient pretext, or they had been watched for quite a while even before that. Killian was not sure which option he disliked more. _Though it doesn't matter. Someone knows we're here, and wants us dead._

The four of them ate without speaking, appetites sharpened by their brush with mortality, until Miranda dabbed her mouth and put down her napkin. "Very well," she said, with her usual brisk, practical air. "What are we going to do next?"

"I was going to capture the master of the packet boat and hit him until his ears ring," Flint suggested. "See what he might cough up about who he's informing for, if so."

"Seeing as we've just killed two men, mate, we could possibly leave the grievous bodily harm until later." Killian raised an eyebrow. "That's already enough to hang us, you know."

"Aye, exactly. So what's a bit more?"

Emma and Miranda exchanged a resigned look, then turned back to their respective husbands. "I agree the packet boat is the best place to start," Emma said, "but it's already left. It travels to Charlestown, then Williamsburg, then back here, so if we wait for its return, that would be at least another week. Which, given recent events, I'm not entirely sure we have to spare."

"Well then." Flint clearly thought the solution was obvious. "We should go after them."

"Forcibly capturing a boat at sea will absolutely count under the heading of piracy, James," Miranda reminded him, with more than a slight warning in her voice. "Even assuming we were able to find a vessel of our own. This isn't some desire to relive the old days while Jenny and Thomas are on Nassau, since you could not go yourself, is it?"

Flint shot her a ruffled look. "Someone just tried to kill all of us. I think some bending of the rules is justified in this case, don't you?"

"It's not the bending of the rules I object to," Miranda said. "It's the potential consequences. You and I and Thomas, all of us, we've made a good life here for many years, the life none of us thought we could have again. We can't just – "

"Aye," Flint interrupted. "We have. And I'm not about to let anyone or anything take it all from us for a second time. So I intend to do whatever I have to. Jones, back me up on this."

Killian looked at his father-in-law with a blend of affection and exasperation, as they had become genuinely family in the several decades they had lived together in Savannah, and so far as it went, he did agree with Flint's sentiments. He knew that the women were objecting not because they disputed the necessity or the methods, as both of them had been pirate queens in their day and in their way, but because they had been relieved to see the last of Captain Flint and Captain Hook, and could not help but fear for the souls of the men they loved if those ghosts were summoned out of the grave again. Emma and Miranda would fight just as fiercely, and then some, to stop that from happening, but the fact remained that none of them were the young rebels they had been. They were flawed, mortal, aging. Had weaknesses and limitations that they had not before, a settled life, something to lose. It was always easier to commit to total war when it was all you knew and you had no good reason to do anything else, when you were immortal and invincible, or at least did not care much if you died. This was different.

"We can handle finding a boat," Flint said, when nobody else moved to break the silence. "That's not a difficulty. If we have to chase them down at sea, dead men tell no tales."

"Someone absolutely will notice if the packet boat doesn't arrive," Killian pointed out. "I agree we need to catch them, but we have to be clever about it."

Flint snorted, but could not deny this fact, and polished off the rest of his coffee. "Any chance we can send word to Thomas and Jenny? I'd feel easier if I was sure they knew about this."

"I can write to my brother," Emma said. "It will take a few days to get to Nassau, though, and if someone's intercepting my letters, that would be quite a risk. We'd have to find someone to carry it who's not associated with us, who could escape whoever is on the lookout for us. Or, well. . ." She hesitated. "As I said, the packet boat stops in Charlestown before it goes to Williamsburg. David and Mary Margaret Nolan live there. They would certainly have a way to correspond with Nassau quickly and reliably, and without any reason to suspect it came from us. If we followed it there. . ."

"Charlestown." Flint's nostrils flared, even as he reached reflexively for Miranda's hand, which had shaken enough to nearly drop her porcelain teacup. "You do remember what happened the last time we set eyes on that godforsaken – "

"Of course I remember." Emma looked at him with a pained expression, clearly trying to tell him that she had not in the least suggested it for some sort of cruel joke. Killian took her hand as well, squeezing it under the table. "You know I don't have many good memories of that place either. But if the packet boat is going there and we could catch it, and if we could be sure of getting word to Thomas and Geneva. . . as well, David and Mary Margaret have connections that we don't, in the colonial legislature and the governor's office. I _know_ you don't want to go there."

Flint's lips went even thinner, seeing as the last time he, Miranda, and the governor of Carolina Colony had been face to face, untold woe and havoc had been the result, which still echoed down the years and in their very flesh. He was very evidently in favor of the "rush out, sink the boat, kill the bastards" approach to problem-solving, which was not surprising, but which was also somewhat less than ideal. Finally he said brusquely, "And we trust the Nolans, do we?"

"I do," Emma said. "They've been good friends to us for many years, and you know David helped us defeat Gold, with absolutely nothing to gain from it except doing the right thing. They didn't need to send us shares of the money from Nassau, but they did. Charlie works with him. And he was the captain who fought to free Sam from the Navy and what Hume – you know. He's a good man. If someone is indeed trying to kill us, he'll help us find out who."

Flint flinched at the mention of Sam. He clearly still did not like this plan at all, but as it was vastly more sensible than his, he was forced to at least consider it in mulish silence. Then he looked at Miranda. "Surely there's no way we could countenance taking you back to – "

"If the rest of you are going," Miranda said firmly, "I do not intend to be left behind. I'll manage, James. It's more than my own safety, it's the future of our entire family. That is worth whatever discomfort, of any sort, I might be asked to suffer."

"You've suffered enough." Flint's voice was gruff, but the tenderness in it was undeniable, and the fear. "I – I can't watch you go through that again."

"Then we shall plan that I won't, shan't we?" Miranda touched his cheek, and the two of them looked into each other's eyes for a long moment, almost having forgotten about Killian and Emma. Then she recollected herself and turned to them. "I'm sure Jenny has some friends with ships who would be willing to do a favor for her kin, wouldn't she? We'll have to start looking. Discreetly, of course."

That was true, and also easier said than done. They could hardly send Flint door-to-door (or rather dock-to-dock) in search of a ship to hire, and the packet boat might not be the only one ordered to keep a lookout for Emma. Miranda was the least suspicious choice, as nobody knew her by name or face and nobody could quarrel with a genteel old lady out for a stroll by the seaside, but as nobody wanted to send her out alone, Killian finally decided to accompany her. With his false hand fixed on, he too could pass for a prosperous gentleman, and he would be able to defend her in the event of a reappearance from any of the comrades of their unwelcome visitors. Everyone hoped not, of course, but no sense in tempting fate.

Thus, leaving Emma and Flint behind for what was certain to be an interesting few hours at the house, Killian and Miranda rode into town, stepped out, and did their best to affect a casual pace down into the busy dockyards. Miranda kept a tight hold on his arm, as the boards were slippery with salt and fish and oil and turpentine, and Killian experienced a brief and considerable wish for his bloody son to come home. Not only to stop Emma worrying, although that of course would be a happy side effect, but because it would be much easier to carry out this sort of thing with a young and sprightly nineteen-year-old around. Killian rarely thought of fifty-three as all that old, and usually it wasn't, but at the moment, he felt like an ancient geezer pottering his way out for a brief reprieve from his quilt-draped chair on the porch. It was very disconcerting, this facing-your-own-mortality lark. But who the devil knew where Samuel James Jones had ended himself up now. He took after certain male relatives in far more than his names.

After an initial perusal, they finally found a captain who was heading up to the Carolinas to do some business in the next fortnight, and saw nothing wrong with taking a few paying passengers along. It was at that point, however, that Killian had to prod him into possibly leaving faster – say, tomorrow. Their engagements there were really quite urgent. Suitable compensation could more than be arranged. They would be grateful. Very grateful.

It took some haggling, but the captain finally agreed to expedite his preparations and leave the day after tomorrow. "You with Lord Murray?" he asked, cocking his head curiously, as he and Killian shook on the bargain. "He's had a number of important errands running back and forth, recently."

"Lord Murray?" Killian blinked. "Who?"

"New governor of Carolina Colony. Arrived from London just a few months ago, really making his mark on the place. Course, he'll have his work cut out for him. Been a few decades, but you never know. Captain bloody Flint could pop up and sack the place again." The captain guffawed.

Miranda winced. She managed to turn it into a gracious smile before the captain looked at her, and Killian, already battling his own nerves over the advisability of a return visit, felt a matching qualm. The sack of Charlestown was clearly something that would remain notorious for years or even decades to come, and if someone was still there who had seen Flint and Miranda the last time. . . Jesus, this was so dangerous. Sitting here like fat ducks for a homicidal and well-funded gang of bogus footmen likewise was, so there was a risk either way, but still. "Lord Murray?" he said again. "No, haven't heard of the man. Day after tomorrow?"

"Aye." The captain considered them again, then nodded. "Nine o'clock."

With this transacted, Killian and Miranda decided not to press their luck any further, and made a smart retreat back to the buggy. As Killian clumsily gathered up the reins, she said, "Lord Murray, is it? And that look the captain gave us – it was as he quite supposed that of course men associated with him would deny it."

Killian glanced at her sharply sidelong, as he had had something of the same impression, but was grateful for Miranda's unerring instinct to confirm that he hadn't been simply imagining it. "Do you know anything about a Murray family that we should be wary of?"

"No," Miranda admitted. "Not more than any other English gentry, and any of my detailed information would be nearly forty years old. But any man who has taken up that post is one who will be well aware of its history, and one who likewise we'll have to be wary of."

Killian nodded grimly, hardly able to deny it, and they drove home in pensive silence, thus to be relieved that no more assassins had appeared in the meantime, and to acquaint Emma and Flint with their transportation arrangements. They all agreed that, offhand joke by the captain or not, it was far too dangerous for Flint to travel openly, and finally (much to his protestations) it was settled that he should be an old man in a wheeled chair who could not speak. Flint was agog at the idea of having to hold his tongue for anything, even in pretense, though everyone else thought it would be soundly good for him. He would also have a blanket pulled over his head, and be expected to spend his time nodding off or otherwise looking frail and harmless. Killian felt that no matter the scale of the other difficulties they faced, this must be the greatest.

Killian and Flint took turns sitting awake that night while the women slept. During his shift in the wee hours, reminding himself that the house creaked when it settled, Killian nonetheless jumped out of his skin when it did so directly behind him, and whirled around, on the brink of drawing his pistol, to see Emma, holding up her hands and looking alarmed. "Easy! It's me!"

"Christ, Swan, you scared me spitless." He hastily tucked the gun back, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Flint and Miranda down the hall. "What are you doing? It's late."

"I know. I woke up, and you weren't there. I was lonely." Emma padded toward him, and he reached out to pull her comfortingly against him. Nobody, he thought with a mix of wryness and tenderness and pride, would reckon them married for nearly a quarter-century with three grown children. She tucked her head under his chin, and he rested it on her hair, absently stroking her back. Then she said, "Do you think we're doing the right thing?"

"I'm. . .. not terribly sure we have a choice, love." Killian blew out a breath. "We have to find what's going on, as you said, and we have a responsibility for Geneva and Thomas. Charlestown is the best way to do it. Though I know none of us want to linger an hour longer in that blasted place more than we must. It will hardly be a happy homecoming for you either, will it?"

"The last time I saw it was as I was getting aboard the ship that I thought would take me back to England, to find work after Walsh's death." Emma did not speak much of her first husband, though more than enough for Killian to thoroughly dislike the ape. "The ship which, of course, was attacked by the _Walrus_ , and how I ended up on my way to Nassau. It feels. . . I don't know. I don't want to risk James and Miranda there, of course, but I don't. . ."

"You're not sure about returning either." Killian felt a faint pang, that of course Emma would think of her adoptive parents' pain in returning to the site of their greatest trauma, and discount her own. Just because it had not involved blood and fire and death and staggering betrayal did not mean that it rankled any less, that it did not still hurt her and haunt her in ways that she had almost – but never entirely – moved on from. Returning to such a place would be certain to flare up old insecurities, in more ways than one, and he hugged her hard, trying to shield her with his body and his words alike. "I love you, Emma. I love you. You're not alone any more, eh? You never will be. I'll be there with you the whole time. You know that, don't you?"

"I know." Emma looked at him with steady, deep, unspeakable adoration, brushing a lock of silvered dark hair out of his eyes. "I know, Killian. And I do want to know what's going on, so of course we have to go. I just hope this isn't tempting fate."

"Me too, love," Killian agreed fervently. Something terrible had not personally happened to him, yet, in Charlestown (though it certainly had in numerous other locations across the Americas and the Indies) and he was not at all eager to add his name to the roster. "You think Flint can bloody keep his mouth shut for ten minutes, much less the whole voyage? That would help."

Emma snorted. "Doubt it," she said dryly. "But there's no harm in trying."

Killian hummed a small noise of agreement into her hair, pulling her to sit down with him. They kept watch together for a few more hours, until the light began to turn grey, there was a rustling at the bedroom door, and Flint emerged. "I'll take over," he said. "You two sleep."

Killian nodded gratefully to him, they went in to nap until midmorning, and then got up to finish their own preparations for the voyage. Once they could be more or less certain that the only calamities they were not equipped for were the ones they could not avoid anyway, they sat down for dinner together, did not speak much, and retired early. Both Killian and Flint did so this time, as they had a long day tomorrow, but both of them likewise took a considerable quantity of weaponry to bed, so that Emma, with a raised eyebrow, remarked that it felt like sleeping in the Tower of London armory. "I'll try not to blow anything important off, if I roll over too quickly."

"Just being thorough." Killian wondered if their house would still be standing when they got back, or if someone would creep up and set fire to it in the night, thinking it a less obvious and more direct way to stage a seemingly tragic and accidental death. Fuck, why hadn't he thought of that before? Perhaps he should get up and prepare a few buckets, just in case –

Emma pulled firmly at his arm as he started to rise from bed, he sighed, and let her tug him back down. He did not, however, take his eyes off the large blunderbuss lying on the chest nearby, which he had modified to be able to operate with one hand. If he was this jumpy before they'd even left Savannah, he shuddered to think what he might be like once they got in sniffing distance of Charlestown, but too much caution seemed a decidedly better option than too little. He should try to avoid blasting almighty bejesus out of a poor innocent servant or lurking housecat, yet he would make no promises.

Despite his conviction of their imminent horrible deaths, Killian finally slipped under, woke at sunrise still-unmurdered, and they got up, dressed, ate breakfast, and made sure they had their things together, before locating the wheeled chair and worn quilt in which Flint would make his deeply unwanted acting debut. They seated him in it, wrapped him up, added a bit of flour paste to his beard and hair to make it whiter and cover up most of the ginger, and Killian – biting his cheek – suggested that Flint could drool a time or two, in the name of method accuracy. The look he got in return nearly scorched his hair off.

Emma herself wore a broad-brimmed hat with a gauzy veil, as they did not want her spotted at an inopportune moment, and they loaded their portmanteaus into the buggy, along with Flint's chair, and drove down to the docks. There was a stable and coach house at which departing travelers could leave their conveyances for safe-keeping, though most had servants to drive them home again, and Killian supposed this was another field in which it would be useful to have a butler who had not earlier tried to kill you. They would have to attend to that later.

They went down the quays, Killian pushing Flint in his chair and Emma and Miranda arm in arm as proper ladies, located their ship, and went aboard. Killian handed over the promised handsome fee, remarked that his father-in-law was feeble and would need the cabin, and ignored the baleful green stare being thrown at him from under a slitted eyelid. Flint could stew all he wanted, but they needed to get to Charlestown _without_ raising the hue and cry.

It was not long until the preparations were completed, the anchor was winched up, and they backed water, lucky that the weather was fair and the wind was fresh. It was not that long of a voyage up the coast, less than a hundred miles, and indeed if this kept up, they could be there by this evening. As much as he did not relish actually facing the bloody place, it was better than just agonizing in suspense, and he'd prefer to get it over with. Never much one for waiting for the blow, was Killian Jones. Would rather it just fall, and work out the rest later.

Killian wandered the deck, rather awkwardly deflected the captain's attempts at pleasant small talk, and made sure Flint had not yet blown his cover. They skimmed north, the green coastline appearing and disappearing, sometimes paired with sand shoals or murky mangrove-choked swamp, the hot summer sun pouring down like golden oil. The sea breeze cut the worst of the heat, and Killian felt a brief pang of delight, despite himself. God, it felt good to breathe salt again, to watch the hands climbing the shrouds, to hear the creak of rope and canvas and feel a ship cutting the water beneath his feet, rushing freely toward the open horizon. He had been settled on land a long time, and he was happy with the life they'd built there, but that did not mean he had lost all yearning for the sea, for the part of his soul that it would always hold in sway. He always felt freer out here, truer, more settled. Perhaps they could actually pull this fool's errand off after all.

This optimistic notion was somewhat less shared by the rest of his traveling party, when he paid a visit to the cabin. Flint clearly wanted to jump out of the chair, prowl all over the ship, and shout at everyone aboard it if they were not up to his exacting standards, Miranda was not about to sit and mollycoddle him, and Emma was pacing, which she appeared set to do for the next six hours to their destination. Conversation was therefore a futile pursuit, and Killian went on deck again, feeling rather as if he was backing out of a den of hibernating bears very quietly to avoid waking them up. He managed to pass the time by talking of knots and sheets and angles of sail and the fine points of charting with the captain, and it was very late afternoon when they came about and tacked into a handsome harbor, stretching before an equally handsome city that was almost, but not quite, completely rebuilt from where it had been burned down twenty-five years ago. The co-culprit of that was sitting in his chair below, doubtless thinking up all sorts of colorful epithets for the occasion. As long as thinking was all he did.

Even Killian felt a brief ancestral frisson of dread as they cut through the glassy green water, reached the quays, and moored up. With a thank-you and another sack of silver for the captain, they went ashore, rolling Flint down the gangplank with a thump and bump over knotted boards that made him swear, and Killian look up sharply to be sure that nobody had heard it. "Can I get out of this infernal contraption yet?" Flint groused, as they navigated their precarious way through the usual industry. Clearly, as much as it chafed his arse to be vulnerable in the ordinary course of things, having to keep up the charade in bloody Charlestown was almost too much to tolerate. "Or are you expecting me to soil myself for maximum authenticity?"

"James, do be quiet for five minutes."

"I've been quiet for considerably longer than that."

Miranda bestowed him with an unmistakably marital look of chastisement, which allowed them enough time to make it up to the street and hail a fiacre. Killian asked for the Nolan residence, and they rattled off, with Flint still looking extremely judgmental. Not that this was surprising, or unexpected, and part of him couldn't blame the grumpy old bastard for it. But given as they were going to be attempting some rather delicate diplomacy, to say the least, now was less than the ideal moment.

Conversation was minimal as they bumped through the crowded, cobbled streets of Charlestown, with Flint's blanket pulled well over his head despite the heat of the day. Even the slight risk of recognizance was one they were not willing to take, and as Flint had been exhibited to the public at large before his intended execution, from which Vane had rescued him, it was not at all out of the question for someone who remembered the notoriety of twenty-five years ago to spot him and raise the hue and cry. Public panics, after all, never needed evidence or solid grounding or rational basis to ignite and spread like fever.

At last, they pulled up in front of the handsome gates of the Nolan estate, and Emma went pale again. It struck Killian a moment too late that it must have belonged to Mary Margaret's parents, Leopold and Eva White, before her, and that this was the very house where Emma had worked as a maidservant – her last sight of it being turned out through those gates with her younger brother and a pittance of money, after they discovered she was pregnant. Killian scrambled across the seat to grab her hand. "Hey, love, it's all right, eh? It's all right."

"I – I know. I'm fine." Emma swallowed hard, managed a smile, and nodded. "I'm fine. It was a long time ago."

Killian nonetheless kept a tight hold on her as he offered her down from the fiacre, then helped hoist the wheeled chair down; they would need to keep up the pretense of Flint's decrepitude at least until they were inside. They paid the fiacre driver, then made their way up the lawn. Once they reached the colonnaded portico of the main house, knocked, and were greeted by an extremely supercilious butler, they informed him that Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and Mr. and Mrs. McGraw, would very much appreciate an immediate audience with Captain and Mrs. Nolan.

It was rather late for polite visiting hours, as the household was sitting down for supper, but the butler finally sniffed and made his put-upon way off to enquire. Killian pondered whether snobbery was an innate job requirement for a butler, or just bred up after a while like maggots in hardtack. But in either event, the individual in question looked slightly (if only slightly) deflated when he returned, and told them that the Nolans would see them shortly, in the drawing room. If they desired libations while they waited, that could be arranged. If the elderly gentleman wanted warm milk or a posset, that could as well.

At that, Flint stood up, kicked the blanket off, and demonstrated his concrete interest in all things non-posset-related, clearly startling the butler. The four of them made their way inside the cool, airy house, took seats in the drawing room with its large windows overlooking another broad green lawn, and waited in tense silence, until the door opened and David Nolan – somewhat older, somewhat greyer, and somewhat more hard-worn, just like the rest of them, but still the tall, dashing Royal Navy captain who had fought with the pirates in the battle of Nassau – stepped inside, his matronly, dark-haired wife behind him. "Captain Jones? Is it you?"

"Aye." Killian rose to his feet, offering his hand, and the two men shook, as Flint was induced to make at least some gesture of polite acknowledgment, though it was only a curt nod. He and Nolan knew each other just in passing, when David had arranged for Killian and Flint to be smuggled into Fort Berkeley in Antigua, to rescue Sam, in exchange for a promise for the rest of the island to be spared. "It's – good to see you, mate. You'll recall my wife, Emma, and her parents, James and Miranda."

"Of course." Whatever he thought of two notorious ex-pirate captains sitting in his drawing room and in Flint's case at least, looking like a cornered cat, David did not let on. "We weren't aware you were coming, is everything – "

"There's a reason, yes. Our apologies for disrupting your supper. Is it safe to talk privately here?"

David looked startled, checked that the door was shut, and sat down on the divan, as Mary Margaret paused, then did the same. "Yes. What is it?"

As straightforwardly as he could, with occasional interjections from the other three, Killian explained their far too eventful past week, their interest in sending word to Thomas and Geneva in Nassau, and the possibility of taking advantage of the Nolan connections to sniff out who might have tried to have them killed. David and Mary Margaret were appropriately shocked, volubly sympathetic, and agreed that they could certainly stay for a few days, there being plenty of room, while they went about an investigation. "I can arrange a visit to Lord Murray, if you want," David offered. "He knows most of what passes through here, and elsewhere."

Killian, Emma, Flint, and Miranda exchanged a look. "Audiences with the governor, especially the governor of Charlestown," Killian pointed out, "are unavoidably a bit difficult for us, mate. Any way you can just ask a few questions, and not bring our names into it?"

"I'll try, of course," David said. "And do understand the, ah, delicacy."

Mary Margaret made a small disapproving noise in her throat. While she had agreed to let them stay, and indeed seemed to be getting on well with Emma and Miranda, she could not fail to hold certain opinions of the man who had burned the city down, and her look at Flint was less than warm. He stared challengingly straight back at her, clearly daring her to say something, and the tension was briefly quite uncomfortable until Miranda laid a hand on Flint's arm and smiled cordially at their hostess. "Your gracious hospitality is most appreciated, Mrs. Nolan. We've had a long day of traveling. Is it possible we could take advantage of those beds?"

Mary Margaret started, nodded, and had the servants show them upstairs to a pair of bedchambers in the back corner of the house. Killian and Emma shut the door and collapsed onto theirs, and Emma stared at the high plastered ceiling, momentarily lost in contemplation. At last she said, "It's very strange to be back here. I used to clean this room."

Killian devoutly hoped that it wasn't one in which the wealthy and irresponsible Mr. Neal Cassidy had pursued his intrigues with the pretty young maidservant of the White household, but that was not at all a question he wanted to ask, or to make Emma have to answer. He shifted up to take hold of her, pulling her head onto his chest, and kissed her hair. "How about we make some new memories for you in it, then?"

Emma rolled over atop him, her smile turning flirtatious, and despite their weariness, they passed a very pleasant interlude before sleep, entangled together in the deep blue evening light. She dropped under first, her breathing turning even and slow, and Killian lay awake a while longer, watching the shadows change on the walls. Well. Their first night in Charlestown, and they were not yet dead. That might not be the most encouraging benchmark, but at least it was something.

He slept soundly when he finally did, though his dreams were unsettling, and woke early, the two of them tumbling out, getting dressed, and making their way downstairs for breakfast, Flint and Miranda arriving shortly thereafter. Flint had washed the flour paste out, so his hair and beard were their usual blend of white and ginger, and the resemblance to his younger self – despite the obvious extra wear and tear – was obvious enough to make Killian grimace. "Mate, are you really sure it's a good idea to be walking around Charlestown bold as brass?"

"I'll wear a hat," Flint said irritably, as if this item's disguise properties were the most miraculous in the world and could not be grasped by ordinary mortals. "Pass the marmalade."

"Your funeral," Killian muttered, exchanging a look with Miranda in which they silently agreed to deal with this problem later. They had not gotten too far into breakfast, however, when David Nolan made his entrance with what appeared to be the morning post. Catching something odd about his expression, Killian frowned. "Hey, is everything – ?"

"To speak of news from Nassau." David sat down at the head of the table and distractedly sipped the coffee that the servant poured. "I've just had a letter from Charles."

Everyone sat forward in sudden attention, as Emma looked nervous. "He hasn't written to say that something went wrong with the voyage – ?"

"No, they arrived. It just seems, well." David sounded slightly uncomfortable. "It appears that Geneva and Thomas have been recruited for an important venture of his, which also required the use of Geneva's ship. It appears that they have set sail for England."

" _England?"_ That caused a communal uproar. Flint looked openly apoplectic, slamming a fist down hard enough to cause the porridge to jump out of the bowl. "What the fuck for? Who thought that was possibly – "

Emma reached out, trying to get him to sit back down. "James, we did allow them to go to Nassau, I'm sure there's a good reason for – "

"It was not to allow your halfwit brother to recklessly endanger them with his business ineptitude!" Flint looked as wrathful as if he was set to spread wings and fly straight down to the Caribbean himself. "Charles just thought it was a grand idea to – what? Get Thomas and Jenny to run an errand to England, of all the _fucking_ – "

"I don't think it was his idea," David cautioned. "It seems to have been on the instigation of, and to settle Charles' debts with, one John Silver."

If the name _England_ had spurred a tumult, this one resulted in abrupt, icy silence. Flint choked on his toast, put it down, and appeared to have, for once, nothing to say. Then he said, sounding strained, "Silver? He – met Thomas? And Jenny?"

"Oh my," Miranda murmured. "That will be a fascinating encounter."

"Apparently so. Charles isn't quite clear on the details, but Silver apparently coaxed them into, or coerced them into, helping him on some errand. And there's more on that as well. It – this is just a rumor, mind, but still – seems to be in pursuit of a Billy Bones."

"Billy?" Flint and Emma said at once, both looking shocked. "Billy's dead."

"Rather less than everyone thought, if Charles' information is correct." David glanced back at the letter. "He says that Geneva urged him to write before they left, and furthermore. . ."

He trailed off.

"What?" the table demanded, agitated. "What?"

"He says that the story she gave him," David said slowly, "is that Bones was recently here. In Charlestown. That he met with someone, and then immediately took passage for England."

"You might have seen him?" Emma asked. "Tall, blonde – he's hard to miss."

"Not that I can recall." David shook his head. "If he was here, he was keeping it carefully under wraps. Which means, therefore, that if anyone does know about it, it'll be Lord Murray."

"Or he could have been the one Billy met with," Flint pointed out. "The governor of Charlestown and an ex-crew member of mine with a particularly venomous grudge could find considerable common ground. Billy betrayed us to Rogers. Surely nobody here has forgotten that?"

"Of course not." Killian almost wanted to point out that Billy had also attended Flint and Miranda's wedding, on that middle-of-nowhere sandbar where Geneva had been born and the news of Peter Ashe's treachery revealed by Lord Archibald Hamilton, but that was a very long time ago, and much water under the bridge. For his own part, he was less than convinced that Billy meant any of them well – possibly Emma, if he knew about her, but certainly not Flint. Apparently, nobody who was supposed to die on Skeleton Island had actually done so, and now after so many years, they were being inexorably drawn toward each other again. _Fuck._

"Either way," Emma said, into the continued uneasy silence. "We need to find a way to at least make Lord Murray's acquaintance. I don't think either James or Killian can go, so I will."

"By yourself?" Killian instinctively disliked that plan.

"With David," Emma suggested. "In that case, I doubt the governor, no matter who he is, can get away with shooting me on the spot."

Flint and Miranda both winced at the idea of the governor shooting anyone, and Emma put a hand over Miranda's. "I need you all safe," she said. "I'd rather face him by myself, rather than put any of you in danger. Besides, I was a friend of Billy's. He asked Rogers for my safety as a condition of that bargain. If I can convince Lord Murray that I am likewise to be trusted with the knowledge of Billy's whereabouts, I could get somewhere."

This was true, but absolutely nobody cared for it any more. Nor could they, however, propose an alternative, and unhappy looks were exchanged down the breakfast table. "No," Killian started. "Hang the danger, I'll go with you, I'll – "

"No," Emma said, quietly but firmly. "I do this by myself."

That, therefore, and with great reluctance on the part of the three left behind, was what happened. Once breakfast was finished and Emma and David were dressed for visiting, having allowed a decent interlude to pass so that it would be in business hours, they went out to the carriage house and waited as the coachman hitched up. Emma kept having to resist the urge to fiddle nervously with her hat. Despite the fact that she was a mature lady of means, a daughter, wife, mother, and grandmother, she had felt seventeen years old again ever since she arrived here, and not in a good way. As much as she assured Killian that it was long ago and it could no longer trouble her, it did, and her preferred method of managing it was to sit tight and hope that it went away. It must, surely. It usually did.

In any case, however, she must not have been quite as discreet as she thought. As David handed her up into the coach, and then stepped in after her and shut the door, he said, "This must be extremely uncomfortable for you, mustn't it?"

"It's not terrible." Emma did her best to smile. "Leopold and Eva were kind to me, for the most part. I was always paid on time, and they were fond of Charlie. Treated him as their son."

"For the most part." David looked at her wryly, sadly. "Until they weren't."

"It's not their fault." Emma glanced down as the footmen climbed onto the running board, snapped the lines over the horses' backs, and the coach jolted into motion, down the sweeping drive. "It's only what anyone in their position would have done. I had. . . caused a liability with Neal, and they were justified in dismissing me."

"It was wrong, nonetheless." The conviction in David's voice made her turn to him, startled. "If they treated your brother as their son, they should have treated you as their daughter. And if you were my daughter, I would never have done that to you."

Emma opened her mouth, then shut it. She was unsure how to respond to something that she had always hungered so badly to hear, but never considered herself worthy of, the rationalizations she had run through for the chain of events that had led her from Leopold and Eva's house to Walsh's, Henry's birth, her decision to try to return to England and then her descent into piracy, all the things she had simply not thought of for years, in having first no desire and then no need. _It worked out. I met Killian, I had Geneva and Sam, I have parents in James and Miranda, and a good friend in Thomas. Henry is married, I have grandchildren, Charles is doing well for himself. I have family now. Friends. A home. It doesn't matter any more. It's past. It's done._

"I," she said at last, voice less steady than she might have wished. "Thank you, Captain Nolan."

He waved a hand, almost diffidently. "I think David suits well enough, don't you?"

"Thank you." Emma looked at him. "David."

He nodded, as if he still felt personally responsible for what his wife's parents had visited on her long ago, and neither of them said anything as the coach rolled into Charlestown, through the morning hubbub, and up toward the governor's mansion. It gave Emma a considerable unpleasant swoop to approach it, knowing what had happened to Flint and Miranda the last time they were here, but she steadied her nerves as best she could. It was easier to face danger by yourself than to sit and wait for others to do it for you, and she did want the truth of what had, literally overnight, turned into a much deeper and far more worrisome mystery. They rolled to a halt, David once more politely offered her down, and after a quiet word on his part to the governor's footmen, they were shown inside.

The mansion had evidently been refurbished between occupants, and the design scheme now seemed to favor elegant blue and gold, along with bouquets of white roses. Emma and David sat on the davenport, politely sipping the offered tea, until the drawing room door opened and a young man in a smartly-tailored velvet coat stepped through. He had brown hair cut short, an appealing, boyish face, and dimples when he smiled, as he was doing presently. "I am Lord Murray, governor of Carolina Colony. Good morning."

"Ah – good morning." Emma and David got to their feet to clasp hands and exchange courtesies, as well as to thank him for receiving them so promptly – provincial bureaucracy was not the most efficient operation in the world, and he could have strung them out for days or weeks. He graciously waved them off, noting that as the Crown was overstretched in any number of directions due to the war, the least he could do was to make life easier for everyone else in the meantime. On that note, he offered his best wishes for the safe return of whichever of Emma's menfolk was doubtless off fighting – oh, it was her son? Surely a capital young man. Her concerns, however, must not be this alone.

"No," Emma admitted. He did seem well-disposed, engaging, and friendly, but that was different from openly prying into sensitive matters. She decided to test the waters first. "Governor Murray, are you aware of the Nolans' business interests on New Providence Island? And its. . . history?"

"I am," Murray assured her. "They were outlaws in the past, of course, but the place has been at peace for twenty-five years now. I am certainly not about to punish it arbitrarily, Mrs. Jones. Or, for that matter, you."

Emma was startled. It had been rather naïve of her to suppose that he would not know who she was, though it wasn't something she put about. "Oh?"

"Aye." He looked at her forthrightly. "Captain Swan, wasn't it? Mistress of the _Blackbird?"_

"It – it was, yes." He couldn't be older than thirty, so he was either not yet born or a very small child during the invasion and overthrow of the pirates' republic, and Emma thought that some of the odd expression on his face must come from meeting a living legend, a piece of history stepped out of the storybook, which suddenly made her feel quite old. "But like New Providence itself, I have been a loyal subject for twenty-five years."

"Of course you have," Murray said. "You are not on trial here, Mrs. Jones. If men's – or women's – past crimes could never be forgiven or atoned for, society would not function. Our lives would indeed remain in the state in which Thomas Hobbes sees them, and that, like Hobbes, I have no wish to be the case. Can you then, in confidence of your safety, divulge the nature of your errand? It does not, I assure you, go beyond this room."

Emma and David exchanged a final considering glance, but the young governor did seem sincere enough, and if he was trying to turn over a new leaf in Charlestown's relations with pirates, there was the fact that it benefited – ironically – from the Nolans' connections and commerce with Nassau. Murray must have little wish to spill such profitable milk in his first months on the job, and with that, Emma finally asked whether he had heard of a Billy Bones, or man of similar alias, passing through the city recently. He might have had meetings with person or person(s) unknown, and then was believed to have departed for England. She and Bones were old friends, but had not seen each other in many years, and if he was at all nearby, she would welcome any tidings of his whereabouts.

"Billy Bones?" Murray leaned forward. "The name sounds familiar. Will you refresh my memory, Mrs. Jones?"

"He was a member of Captain Flint's crew, on the _Walrus._ He was believed to be long dead on Skeleton Island, but if he made it off somehow, his information would be very valuable to the highest bidder. As the island is, of course, a repository for at least half the Spanish treasure stolen from the salvage camp in 1715, aboard the _Walrus_ when she wrecked."

"Indeed. Very valuable information would be quite understating it." Murray chewed that over. "And you think he might have shared that intelligence with someone here? Why?"

"We're not certain. The news is at least third-hand. It came from my brother, in Nassau. As well. . ." Emma hesitated. "Before this, back in Savannah, there was an incident with two individuals who tried to kill us. We were wondering if that might be connected somehow."

"Us, Mrs. Jones?"

"Yes. My husband, myself, and my aged parents." She could almost hear Flint bristling at this description, particularly the "aged" part, but best to make him sound as innocuous as possible.

"That is troubling to hear. What became of these ill-mannered ruffians?"

"They, ah." Emma tried to think of the most discreet way to put this. "We were forced to act in self-defense, Lord Murray."

"Of course, of course." He nodded. "Perfectly understandable. And no doubt a distressing incident for you. Do you have any idea where it might have originated from?"

"The packet boat that travels between Savannah, Charlestown, and Williamsburg – it might have had some role in passing the information. We followed it here. If it's in the harbor, we want to speak with the master." For that matter, Emma wondered if Flint and Killian, rather than sit on their hands at the Nolan estate, had sallied forth to find the offending vessel themselves, and obtain answers by one means or another. It was not at all out of the question, especially for Flint.

"I see." Murray nodded again. "Well, Mrs. Jones, you have given me a great deal to cogitate on, and I will be making a number of enquiries. It is most likely that you will stay in Charlestown while these are being carried out – assuming Captain Nolan consents to continue hosting you, of course. Indeed, if the rumors of the Crown's defeat in Florida are true, it is also likely safer for you to remain somewhat further up the coast, in the event of a Spanish invasion. I know that Charlestown has been hostile to your kind before, but I hope that it may now prove a refuge."

"Thank you." As he rose to his feet, signaling the audience to be at an end, Emma and David did as well, and she took the governor's offered hand. "You've been very kind, Lord Murray. We are in your debt."

"Please," he said, and smiled at her, brown eyes crinkling at the edges. "Call me Gideon."

* * *

It was not yet dawn, and the light on the bedroom wall was deep grey, no longer full night but a good way off as yet from sunrise. It was almost quiet, as even the many servants of Paris were only just rousting themselves out to begin the day, and the air was still as glass. It was hot enough in deep summer that they might have cracked the window in search of a breeze, but as that would allow the foul miasma of the night air, redolent with the stench of the city's filth baked in the daytime, to get in, they instead slept with only gauze curtains and a light coverlet. Or rather they had, but Liam had kicked it off again. Not that he was terribly surprised, as this was as much part of the morning routine as the particular hue of the light and the stuffy, breath-held stillness. He was quite familiar with this moment, it generally being the one at which he awoke with a jerk from his nightmares. He knew exactly how long it would be until the bells of Notre Dame and the city churches began to call Prime, and the spell would break, the life return.

Careful not to disturb Regina, he sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face; his beard grew in like a bloody werewolf if he didn't shave each morning, and as of late, there had been considerably more grey in it than even recently before. Liam was entitled to this distinguishment at the age of fifty-eight, but it seemed as if much of the remaining brown in his curls had vanished within the span of a few months, and that was disconcerting. He grimaced, working his left shoulder and his back, as both of his old stab wounds were prone to feeling as if the Devil had jabbed them with a hot poker when he first woke, and leaned forward with a grunt of discomfort, trying to loosen the seized-up muscles. Christ, he was getting old.

After a few rounds of this, he managed to get his body at least somewhat interested in cooperating with him, and straightened up with only a slight groan, padding his barefoot way across the floorboards to the chair by Regina's vanity. From here, he could look down into the narrow cobbled street that their townhouse was perched on, just a few minutes' walk to the Collège de Sorbonne of the Université in one direction, or down to the Seine waterfront, and the Île de la Cité, in the other. It was a respectable enough neighborhood, though far from wealthy, as the individuals of consequence lived in expansive estates well away from the crowds and grime of the city. Not that Liam cared. He had no intention of being one of the powdered, gilted fops who danced attendance on King Louis at the pleasure palaces of Versailles – at which this monarch, fifteenth of his name, generally spent his time. He had inherited the throne at the age of five, after the death of his grandfather the Sun King, and generally seemed interested in doing anything but applying himself to actually sitting on it, having gotten his childhood tutor, Cardinal Fleury, to rule the country instead. This was not entirely for the bad, since while England and Spain were interminably at war, Louis provided token support to his Bourbon cousins but was otherwise too indolent to go to the bother of involving France in any major operations. That, Liam supposed, was what passed for peace these days. For anyone.

He opened a drawer on the vanity, removed brush, bowl, razor, and strop, thought briefly of doing this mornings on the _Imperator_ with Killian, and worked up a rich soap froth. Despite living in France for almost three decades, and becoming mostly accustomed to their idiosyncrasies, Liam still had not figured out what the deuce they had against facial hair. It did not trouble him much, as he was in the habit of keeping at least mostly clean-shaven from his days in the Navy, but if a gentleman stepped out with any shadow upon his jaw, he could expect looks as if a close friend or family member had died, and not-quite-muttering about the scandalous customs of English barbarians. To wear a beard was only for the working poor, on either side of the Channel, who could not be expected to tend so regularly to their upkeep. The morning shave it was. Liam did not particularly fancy being constantly gaped at otherwise.

He finished, rinsed, buffed his newly bare chin with the towel, and inspected the result. Should be sufficient to set foot outdoors without any nearby ladies fainting. Liam also broached convention in not wearing a wig, preferring his own hair in a queue, and most of his neighbors had resigned themselves to his savage peculiarities (though doubtless wondering if it impacted on their property values). As Fleury preferred to keep the Hanovers mostly friendly, Liam was not spat on – much – or had rotten vegetables chucked at him, as he sometimes had when they first arrived here. He still spoke French with an English accent, so his heritage could never be disguised, but he was fluent to the point that he tended to think in it more often than his native tongue, so it was usually overlooked.

Shaving complete, Liam dressed, leaned over the bed to kiss his wife lightly on the forehead – she stirred and murmured, but didn't wake – and showed himself out, descending the creaking stairs as quietly as he could. Their household staff (a cook, a butler, two footmen, and Regina's lady's maid) had also gotten used to Monsieur embarking on solitary peregrinations at unsociable hours, from which they had tried in vain to dissuade him. Liam took down his hat and walking stick – the danger he encountered on these walks was usually no worse than a shambling drunk or a street whore desperate for a _paillasson_ before the night was through, but he was not unmindful to the possibility of others, and a rapier was concealed within – opened the door into the cool morning, and stepped out, shutting it behind him. Regina tended to rise considerably later, anyway, so she'd likely still be asleep by the time he got back.

Drawing a deep breath of air damp from an overnight rain, Liam set off to the coffeehouse, Le Cochon Tacheté (or as it was generally known, Le Cochon) where he usually took his morning meal. Despite its somewhat unflattering name, it regularly played host to some of the salons that took place in the city, in the great intellectual climate of enlightenment. Émilie du Châtelet, mistress of the satirist Voltaire and a formidable genius in her own right, had discussed her project of translating and expositing Isaac Newton's _Principia mathematica_ , and just earlier this year, the inventor Jacques de Vausancon had debuted his clockwork-powered carriage, which he claimed would eventually allow them to run without horses. His optimism was not shared by everybody, but Liam could appreciate a dreamer. It was nice to know that someone still did.

He reached the establishment after about fifteen minutes, delayed only by a legless decrepit inveigling for alms – Liam tossed him a sou – and stepped inside. Coffeehouses were regarded narrowly by the authorities, on account of their reputation as meeting places to arrange political activity, to share scathing broadsheets and newspapers, and otherwise for a younger and less-grey clientele, but Liam was a regular here, and they had finally stopped suspecting him of being an inspector for the Bureau of Morals. Indeed he was greeted, poured a steaming black cup from a pottery kettle, and supplied with a sweet roll still warm from the ovens out back, fresh and flaky. He took his usual seat in the corner, and started to eat.

A few more patrons drifted in as it continued to get lighter, though Liam did not pay much attention to them. He finished his breakfast, considered that he should be getting back home, and was just about to reach for his walking stick, when someone stepped up beside him and touched his sleeve. _"Excusez-moi. Monsieur Jones?"_

Startled – and even more so to be addressed by name – Liam turned. _"Oui? Comment puis-je t'aider?"_

Apparently satisfied that it was the right person, the man, who had the look of a messenger in household livery, inclined his head and spoke in accented English. "Monsieur? If you would come with me. My mistress hopes that you will do her the honor of a visit."

Liam was somewhat irritated at what appeared to be the universal French assumption that anyone who did not natively speak the language should not be taxed to hold any actual conversation in it, but this was quickly overtaken by confusion. He and Regina had a few standing engagements and supper invitations, but they were far from especially desired guests in Parisian high society, and he had not been expecting a solicitation. "Your mistress?"

"Indeed, monsieur. She is an Englishwoman recently arrived in Paris, and was given your name. She is most interested in arranging a call. Are you available?"

"I – " Liam blinked. Married gentlemen did not usually call alone on presumably respectable gentlewomen (at least only to appearances, as the entire bloody so-called devoutly Catholic country was, to Liam's disapproving view, furiously engaged in extramarital fornication to every direction). "Now? It's hardly calling hours, is it?"

"Are you not available, then? When would be more convenient?"

"I – no, I am, but – "

"Splendid, monsieur." The messenger looked to be in imminent expectation of Liam getting up to follow him. "Her carriage is outside. If you will?"

Thoroughly baffled, Liam was left with nothing to do but cram on his hat, grab his stick, and follow the messenger out to where a full coach-and-six – highly impractical for the crowded, narrow Paris streets, but clearly chosen to make an impression rather than for convenience – was waiting. There was a gilded crest on the door, but he didn't get a good look at it as he was smartly ushered inside, wondering if this was a social call or a very well-mannered kidnapping. The interior was gloomy, windows shielded with black faille curtains, and thus it took him a moment to realize that someone was sitting across from him. He had expected to be conveyed to some stately residence or other, and then to wait anyway, as upper-crust Paris, to say the least, did not rise with the lark, but apparently this mysterious lady had decided to cut out the middleman. She was dressed in a very modish black gown, shiny dark ringlets piled high on her head and fixed with a beaded onyx comb and two plumed feathers, and while she looked, at first glance, quite a bit younger than him, Liam thought he could detect paint and powder and a carefully made-up mask to disguise considerable age. Seeing his general bewilderment, she smiled. "Ah. Captain Jones, is it not?"

"Yes." He politely removed his hat and set it on the seat next to him, as the messenger climbed onto the standing post with the footman and the carriage rolled forward with a creak of heavy wheels. "May I know to whom I have the honor of addressing myself?"

She smiled, rather coyly. "You may."

Liam stared at her in expectation of a name. None was provided.

"Later, at any rate. We have more important matters to discuss. You are the Liam Jones who was once commander of HMS _Imperator_ before she went pirate, aren't you?"

"Yes." Liam's spine stiffened. Whoever she was, she had clearly done some digging. "I was informed that you were an English gentlewoman recently arrived in France."

"Oh, I am." She giggled. "Partly, it must be confessed, in search of you. You see, I have recently come into possession of some intriguing intelligence, Captain Jones. Can you guess what?"

"No, my lady?" This faux-little girlish act was already beginning to annoy him. "One would suppose that was the purpose of secret intelligence."

"Indeed." She cocked her head, regarding him with a cool, appraising stare that belied the apparent coquetry. "Well. Does the name Skeleton Island mean anything to you?"

"Only as much as it means anything to anyone," Liam said, successfully concealing a brief start of surprise and unease alike. "A byword for a place full of mythical treasure that everyone dreams of somehow retrieving, but which it is in no way feasible to actually do. An El Dorado, a Shangri-La. I trust your ladyship was not placing too much stock in fairytales."

"It's not a fairy tale." She continued to look at him with that too-intent gaze. "I have someone who can take us there, or so he claims. Isn't that curious?"

"Very convenient for you, if true," Liam said. "I fail to see what business it is to do with me. I have never been there and I know nothing about it."

"Oh, I know. But you are related to people who _do_ know, aren't you? Your sister-in-law, your brother's wife. Emma Swan – or Jones, I suppose it would be now?" The dark-haired woman leaned forward. "Possibly the only living person, aside from my source, of course, who has actually been to Skeleton Island and knows the details of its location and difficulties. And as well, the persistent rumors that Captain Flint is not as dead as one might think. He, of course, would be the biggest prize of all. Do you know?"

"I have not seen my brother and his family for years." Liam was caring less and less for this conversation, and for this woman, by the minute. "If you have a plan in place, then I wish you good fortune of it, but leave me out of it. I have no interest in and no need for this venture."

"Oh, don't you?" She smiled again, though it failed to reach her eyes. "I'm glad you think so, Captain, but I disagree. Your expert advice is very useful to us, and the man is currently in a place you have considerable familiarity with. You see, we have not actually met face to face. Merely corresponded by letters. I have need of, as it were, a native guide."

"You may," Liam said, more or less politely, "feel free to find yourself another one."

She giggled again, something high and cold that gave him a brief, unaccountable flash of unpleasant memory, though to who or what he could not have said. "I don't think so."

"What makes you think I'd know anything about any godforsaken backwater where some babbling lunatic has washed up, claiming to be able to lead you to a miraculous treasure? Or do you – "

"It's not a backwater." She still seemed amused. "At least, not much of one. Bristol."

"What?" That caught Liam on the hop. Bristol was the closest thing to a permanent home that he and Killian had ever had, the _Imperator's_ home port, the place where their purser, Hawkins, was from, and where his wife ran their inn on the waterfront. Where Liam had made his infernal bargain with the fraudulent Mr. Plouton, to get the Jones brothers out of slavery. "This man you think can lead you to Skeleton Island, he's in Bristol?"

The woman nodded. "Recently arrived after a journey from the Colonies. We'll be leaving shortly to meet him there. I've a ship waiting in Le Havre."

"Wait, you – " Liam was outraged. "You can't just bloody abduct me off the street and expect me to help you in this madness! My wife is at home, my life, you can't – "

"I can." She smiled, more kittenish than ever, revealing small white teeth. Rapped on the roof to order the coachman to keep driving, rattling out on the road that led north to Normandy and the sea. "You work for me now, and you'd better not forget it. And in case you were wondering, as I know you were, my name is Fiona. Lady Fiona Murray."


	5. V

The water was a color Geneva had never seen before: the rich, unearthly green of deep open ocean far from any land to interrupt its endless, slow-motion tumbles, with waves that reminded her of slumbering giants stirring and rolling in their sleep, rather than the sharp and vigorous crash of shore waves or reef breakers. She had been on and around the sea as long as she could remember, but even she had felt a brief stab of apprehension when the distant shadow of Eleuthera – the last island between them and three thousand miles of the Atlantic – had fallen permanently astern. They were bound north by northeast, would stop over in Bermuda in about a week, and then, assuming good weather, strike out on the major leg to London. It was mid-July now, and the very best estimate put them there no earlier than Daddy's birthday, on Saint Bartholomew's day in the last week of August. Add in any storms or delays, and that could easily become the first fortnight of September. _Then_ add in whatever the blazes Silver wanted to do once there, how long it took them to track down Billy Bones, the fact that setting back across to the Americas any later than October at the tail end was regarded as too dangerous for most shipping assurance agents to underwrite, and it looked quite likely that they would be spending the winter in England. Where this would be, or who was going to provide for this, or if they would be reduced to begging door to door for ha'pennies, Geneva had no notion. Considering who she had aboard, she didn't _think_ so, but still.

It was almost dusk, the red-gold orb of the sun spilling into the waves behind them as the _Rose_ pointed her bow into the deepening night, and Geneva pulled her shawl tighter as she stood at the rail, the ship's lanterns flickering to life as the crew lit them. It would be time for supper soon, but she would eat later in her quarters with Madi. At least nobody had killed anyone else yet, although the arrangement could not be said to have been rigorously tested when it was only three days old. And that was also not to say that Geneva did not expect –

"Captain Jones?"

Geneva grimaced to herself, managed to control the expression on her face, and turned instead with a pleasant smile. "Good evening, Mr. Silver. Did you require something?"

His own smile was wry, as if acknowledging that she had likely been enjoying said evening more before he appeared to further darken its doorstep. He moved up next to her, gazing out at the distant, cloud-veiled horizon, grey-black curls whipping loose from their thick ponytail. At last he said, "I did not need something, per se. I was only hoping that you and I could establish ourselves on more cordial terms. After all, we have a good deal of time to spend together, and it is always easier to do so in amicability. As well, I realize – understandably, of course – that you do not trust me, and I thought that too should be addressed. There is a great deal of indirect history between us, and. . . well." He shrugged. "Perhaps I too am curious."

Geneva regarded him coolly. "Trying to befriend me so as to decrease the chances of Madi and myself continuing to remain allied together against you? Is that it? You never do anything or approach anyone without half a dozen ulterior motives."

"I deserve that," Silver acknowledged. "And it was quite clever of you to bring her, I was impressed. And not ungrateful. Madi and I have had our differences, but I. . ." He paused, almost open and sincere for the first time. "I have always hoped that one day we could reconcile. I have only ever wanted what was best for her, though perhaps at times I have lacked something in carrying it out. But you know about doing what you must to protect your loved ones without asking their permission, don't you, Geneva? You're doing it right now."

"To speak of permission, I don't recall giving it to you to use my first name, Mr. Silver."

"Captain Jones, then," he corrected deferentially. "But you came to Nassau in search of your family's past, didn't you? I can help. I was there. I can tell you."

"And can I trust whatever you would tell me?"

Silver's shrewd blue eyes studied her face. After a long moment he said, most unexpectedly, "I knew your father, and your uncle Liam, briefly, when we were all boys. They were indentured servants on my father's ship – also John Silver, a grain merchant out of Bristol. That particular association ended. . . tragically, though not undeservedly, for him. So now we once more have a Jones and a Silver aboard the same ship, and with questions of our survival at stake. I ran away before your uncle Liam did what he did, but your father long held a grudge against me for it. Felt as if we might be friends, that I could help free them as well, and then I didn't."

Geneva wasn't sure what to say. She knew that her father and uncle had been sold into servitude at a tender age, and remained in such state until they were young men, and that Liam had done something drastic to break their bonds and enable them to join the Royal Navy. She had not known what, nor that Silver was involved – though this did make his comment about indirect history take on a new and slightly sinister dimension. "What happened with that? Exactly?"

"I'm none so sure you want to know."

"I do. Am I supposed to trust you? Prove it."

"You'll think that I'm lying, to cast your family in a bad light."

"My family were pirates, I know they weren't angels. Tell me."

Silver paused, then shrugged again. With that, he informed Geneva briefly and efficiently of the particulars, that her uncle Liam had made a devil's deal with a Mr. Plouton to sabotage Captain Silver senior's ship, thus ensuring that it sank and he and his crew all drowned, in exchange for the Jones brothers' freedom, money to pay off their indentures and buy their commissions, and smoothing everything over with the local Admiralty board to get them assigned to HMS _Imperator._ Geneva had suspected it was something bad, but hearing it confirmed rocked her onto her heels. She did indeed have an urge to accuse Silver of lying, as he otherwise did so habitually, but knew that this time at least he wasn't. At last she said, rather faintly, "Oh."

"Aye." Silver's hands tightened on the rail. "Your father's freedom, for my father's life."

"And. . . did you. . ."

"Did I seek revenge? Or want it? No. I'd run away already, as I said, and my father was. . . not a good man. I did not feel his death to be any particular tragedy."

"What happened? To you?"

"It's not important." Silver's voice was very quiet, almost faltering, and he did not look at her. Despite herself, Geneva had the sense that sharing even this much information about his past was unprecedented, and that while her grandfather wore his tragedies on his sleeve and freely used them to fuel his rage, there were similar heartbreaks somewhere inside Silver that he kept utterly shut up in a small box somewhere far from the light of day, training himself to become as glossy and valuable and impenetrable as his surname, that he transformed into his manipulations as Flint had fed his war. There was no sound for a long moment but the wind keening through the shrouds and sails – if this kept up, they could make it to Bermuda in record time. As long as it got no stronger, as the waves were likewise blowing white. Then Silver said, "I did suppose you deserved to know that much at least."

"Thank you." Geneva meant it, though her feelings on him had not otherwise changed. "And is that all you wanted? To fill me in on some sordid family history?"

"No." Silver turned from his intent contemplation of the twilight. "I did want to ask you how your grandfather is."

"You've shared a cabin with Uncle Thomas for three days."

"Thomas is. . . being very careful about what pieces of Flint he parcels out to me. I daresay he feels quite protective of him, and wary of what my curiosity could mean, though I promise it is nothing untoward on any account. It is like standing at a well, trying again and again to draw up a bucket of water to drink, and yet every time you pull it out, a hole has been staved in the bottom, and it is empty."

Geneva glanced at him with an arched eyebrow. "Isn't that what it's like dealing with you?"

Caught by surprise, Silver laughed. "I suppose that could be truthfully said, yes. Yet as you are curious about what you missed, about what has changed, so am I. I like your great-uncle, for the record. I'm not entirely certain I expected to, but I do. Yet he is a man accustomed to keeping his mouth shut both as an experienced politician, and in regard to all the secrets he has lived with the cost of bearing. Even I could not wear him down or break through his armor, at least not quickly, and frankly, I have no wish to do so. The man has suffered enough for who he chose to be, and I am not a monster. Sometimes I ponder what he and Flint could possibly have had in common. Thomas is ever-gracious, gentle, courtly, kind, idealistic and eloquently spoken, and he even does not seem to hold much of a grudge for the bitter ordeal that he too must have been through. And then I run up, again and again, against that immovable wall of granite, and I understand precisely."

Geneva could not argue with this observation, nor with Silver's acumen in reading people, though this was doubtless the reason that he then knew where to find each and every one of their weak spots. "So all you want is to know about Flint?"

"Am I not allowed to miss him too?" Silver's face was half in shadow, the wind blowing his hair into his eyes, so she could not make out his expression. "I used to have a pet bird, several years ago. A macaw, with red feathers, rather like your grandfather. To be sure, it was not my pet at first. I've rarely seen a living creature more determined to hate me. Scratched me, squawked at me, ruffled its wings whenever I came near, tried on multiple occasions to shit on me. Yet – I doubt either of us were quite sure how – I began to leave food for it, and it would come to take it, however grudgingly at first. When it broke its wing, I mended it back to health, as much as it would allow me. After that, it ceased being quite so cantankerous when it saw me, though it would still cluck disapprovingly, and finally consented to come and sit on my shoulder. It learned to speak a few phrases, as parrots do. Its favorite word was 'No.' So I ended up, therefore, calling it Captain Flint, as there truly seemed no other more fitting name."

Despite herself, Geneva snorted. "And so what happened to him?"

Silver paused fractionally. "He died. I suppose he did, at any rate. He would come at a certain time every evening to be fed, and one day he simply no longer did. I called for him, left out some of his favorite treats, asked around the marketplace if they'd seen him – he was rather infamous there, always tried to steal their wares or their food. Someone would have shot him long since, if I had not made it clear that there would be consequences. Possibly someone did exactly that. Found him alone in the jungle, and solved the problem quietly. At any rate – much like your grandfather – I never saw him again."

Geneva glanced at him sidelong. Finally she said, "Grandpa is. . . he's fine. Good, even. He has Granny and Uncle Thomas, and they're happy."

"Not haunted, then? By the man he left in the sea?"

"I suppose he is. In his way. Though it's not something he would speak about with me. But for better or worse, he's managed to let Flint lie, however unquietly at times, in his grave. He loved someone more than this life. I'm not sure you did."

Silver flinched. "I did not want the war to go on forever," he said at last. "I wanted peace, however it could be found, for all of us. What passed between Captain Flint and myself, at our last meeting on Skeleton Island – "

He stopped.

"Yes?" Geneva tried not to be too obvious about prodding, as this was the one great mystery which her family still knew nothing about. "What was that?"

Having caught himself at the brink of a considerable slip, even if he might want desperately to finally speak of these things again, Silver smiled, politely and utterly unrevealingly. "It will be time for mess," he said. "I'm quite certain I just heard the bell. Good night, Captain Jones."

And with that, and Geneva quite certain she had not, he went.

The wind stayed good, and they reached port on Bermuda by the end of the week – St. George's Town, on the northeastern tip of the island, which had been an English territory since a shipload of settlers bound for Jamestown in 1612 had wrecked there, washed up, founded a new colony while they were at it, and then (mostly, at least) continued on their way. Bermuda was now a vital shipbuilding yard and halfway point for voyages between the Americas and England, and a great deal of the reason for their visit, aside from topping up on fresh water, was to see if Billy Bones had also passed through here en route, and if it could be tangibly confirmed that they were doing anything more than chasing smoke and shadows. So Geneva, Thomas, Madi, and Silver went ashore, more or less a united cohort for the moment, to make enquiries.

St. George's was a pretty, hilly seaport with striking pink-sand beaches, not terribly different from Nassau, and indeed, given Bermuda's reputation as a hotbed of privateering, it had plenty of its own less-than-legal history. As they climbed the steep street, stopping periodically to account for Silver's slower time on his crutch, Geneva glanced at her great-uncle. "How has it been?" she asked in an undertone. "The two of you haven't strangled each other yet, at the least."

"No." Thomas chuckled wryly. "I will say that the man is not completely unlikable when he puts his mind to it, though that is so clearly what he is doing that it leaves me to conclude that there is another purpose to it. I sense that he might have some genuine regard for me, despite himself. But it is not easy to come across someone who has shared a loved one, yet on precisely the opposite side of things. I know about Silver and he knows about me, but only in what James has told both of us individually and in drastically differing circumstances. No wonder that that fails to fit easily or comfortably into a flesh-and-blood reality."

"Aye, I can see that." Geneva did not want to pry into private business, but as Silver had raised it, and it could potentially be relevant to their enterprise, she had to ask. "Did Grandpa ever tell you and Granny what happened on Skeleton Island? How long he was there, how he got off?"

Thomas hesitated. "He was there for nearly a year," he said at last. "Rather, that is the version which I believe most likely to be true. Other times he has claimed it was closer to two years, or three. It cannot have been any longer than that, as he and Miranda were reunited in 1720, and they found me about six months later."

"Other times?" Geneva repeated, surprised. "He hasn't given you one story?"

"James rarely does. Even to those closest to him." Thomas smiled, softly and sadly. "And as well, we were apart for many years, and suffered many tribulations. Secrets become part and parcel of the life we share now. Not due to any lack of trust, or diminishment of affection, but merely because there is little point in digging up an old wound to be chewed over, when hearing of the pain would cause all of us more, and we wish to think instead of the future. So no, James has never told myself or Miranda the full, unabridged, completely truthful account of his last confrontation with Silver, or his sojourn in the wilderness, or how he returned from it to a world he but dimly recognized. I have not told either of them everything that happened to me in the asylum in England or the work plantation in Georgia, and I do not doubt that Miranda has not told us everything she underwent after she and James were ripped apart in Charlestown, her long convalescence in Paris, and all that she did to return to the Americas in such slender hopes of finding us. We share parts and pieces, my dear. Enough to ask for help when needed, and that in itself is miraculous. But the full burden and tragedy of it is best left elsewhere than our home and our bed. We have suffered enough."

Geneva opened, and then shut, her mouth. She could tell that, gently and patiently as this was phrased, it was nonetheless a quiet rebuke, a reminder that if Thomas had known he felt might be useful and able to be divulged, he would have told her already, and he was not keeping vital information back on a whimsy. It was also a reminder that while the McGraw-Hamiltons loved their family and their granddaughter very much, some things remained beyond the remit of what they were willing to discuss with her, and this, for its part, seemed to be one. Sensing this, and as if to soften the blow, Thomas said, "His account of how he got off the island is likewise that he bartered passage on a trader. Went to Philadelphia first, then made his way back south."

"A trader? So there must be ships that pass at least somewhat close to the island?"

"He said that he built a small ketch and sailed some way out to sea, so I don't think it was near the island, no. As for the ship, she was a repurposed Indiaman, the _Nautilus,_ and her master was a man known as Nemo. I am not sure, however, that this was not some sort of jest, either on the part of James or of his supposed rescuer."

"Why is that?"

" _Nemo_ means _no one_ in Latin," Thomas explained. "As indeed James was then, no one, a man without a name or a past, returning from months or years of exile on a remote island. At any rate, that is all I know. I admit that at times my curiosity has driven me mad wanting to ask Silver, but I do not want his side of the story first, or to betray James' confidence in what he chooses to tell me. He may do so one day, and he may not, but it remains his story and his right to tell."

Geneva could not think of anything to say to this, and Thomas likewise seemed to want to be done talking for the moment, so they made their way up the rest of the street and into the public house at the top. The proprietor, taking Geneva, Thomas, and Silver for the traveling party, and Madi for their slave, had to be curtly corrected of that mistake, and explained that they did not often see free Negresses on the same standing as well-to-do white gentry (this comprising Geneva and Thomas, at least, as Silver did not look terribly reputable either). Madi continued to stare daggers into his head as Geneva purchased two rooms and supper for the night – and then, as the proprietor counted her change back to her, something caught her eye among the coins. When they had taken a seat in the common room, she pushed it forward and said, "Isn't this a Spanish piece of eight? _D.G. Hispan et Ind., Rex Philip V_. . ." She flipped it. "1713."

Looks were exchanged. Philip V of Spain was still on the throne, having abdicated for eight months in 1724 to let his son take over and then forced to return to the job when said son died, and thus it was not impossible for older coinage of his to be in circulation, especially with Bermuda's status as a center of English privateering activity, sending out sloops and crews to prey on and disrupt Spanish shipping to support the war effort in Florida. It was curious, however, that this coin did not look at all as it should, if it had been struck twenty-seven years ago and in regular usage since. It should be clipped, tarnished, worn smooth, even split into bits, but it remained intact, shining, and silver as if it had just come hot from the mint. As if, say, it had lain unused and hidden for a long time, was retrieved, then spent, which meant –

"Excuse me." Geneva got up and wove her way back toward the front of the tavern, waited until the proprietor had attended another customer, then turned to her with a look clearly expecting more chastisement. "Did you give lodging recently – within, say, the last month or two – to a man named Bones? A man who paid for his bed and board with older Spanish currency?"

The proprietor blinked at her, baffled. "Mistress?"

"This coin," Geneva said impatiently. "Are there more like it?"

"Are you asking to inspect my purse and takings, mistress?"

"Not at the moment. Just this." Geneva put the coin on the counter. "Are there others?"

"Is it. . . entirely your business, mistress?"

"Yes, it presently is. Other coins. Like this. Spanish pieces of eight minted before 1715, possibly even a golden _escudo_ or two. Spark your memory?"

The proprietor's gaze flickered to Silver. "Mistress, your companion has one leg."

"And what in damnation does that have to do with anything? It's not his leg that causes the most trouble, believe me."

"Is there some difficulty?" Thomas had come up behind her, light blue eyes pleasant but sharp. "Are you refusing service to my niece, sir?"

"I'm – " The proprietor looked cornered. "I was instructed not to – "

Thomas reached into his waistcoat pocket and produced a golden guinea, which he slid deftly under the proprietor's account book so not as to attract the notice of any passersby; it was more than many of them would earn in months. "Has your memory improved now, perhaps?"

Geneva watched this exchange in some admiration, even as the proprietor wavered a moment longer, then gave in. "Fine. Yes. A man named Bones passed through here, about on six weeks ago, and paid in older Spanish coins from a locked chest he had. Tall fellow, maybe five-and-fifty, sort as has had a hard life. Insisted that if for any reason a one-legged man was to come asking for him, I was to say nothing about it."

"And compensated you well for the service, I suppose." Inside, Geneva felt both pleased and unsettled. So Billy Bones _was_ alive, _did_ have a stash of the Skeleton Island treasure with him as proof of his story for whatever skeptics he might have to convince, and furthermore, had known or at least guessed that his old and former friend, John Silver, might catch wind of it all and decide to go after him. "Did he say where he was bound?"

The proprietor hesitated.

"My great-uncle can give you another bribe," Geneva said, "or I can punch you in the nose. You decide."

The poor man was so taken aback at the idea of a well-dressed young lady threatening to practice violence upon anyone that it startled him into answering. "He. . . Bristol."

"Bristol?" Geneva and Thomas glanced at each other in surprise. While this, if true, would shorten their journey slightly – they only had to make it to the west coast of England, rather than through the Channel and up the Thames to London – it meant their working notion of what was going on would have to be completely rejiggered. They had assumed that Bones was traveling to Westminster to sell the intelligence to the English government directly, but his potential aims in Bristol were far less obvious. It was the center of the Crown's maritime trade, the biggest Royal Navy base in the British Isles after Portsmouth, and Killian and Liam Jones, John Silvers senior and junior, and Woodes Rogers had all lived there at some point (as well as the pirate Blackbeard, in his days as Edward Thatch), so certainly Bones could find somebody or something to his interest. What that was, however, had been rendered once more a total mystery.

Sensing that the man had legitimately told them all he knew, and not wanting to press their luck, Geneva and Thomas nodded, turned on their heels, and went back to their table – where, in the three minutes they had been left alone together, Madi and Silver had managed to get into an argument, from which they desisted only belatedly at the reappearance of their companions. "What?" Madi said, seeing their faces. "What is it?"

"We've had an. . . interesting development." With that, Geneva tersely recounted what they had learned, including the course change for Bristol, at which she eyed Silver pointedly. "You're the one who conceived and coerced this entire enterprise with the threat that Bones was going to sell all of us out. If he's not in fact going to Westminster, then what's he doing?"

"He is alive, isn't he?" Silver pointed out, obviously choosing to circumvent her question. "And going to England. I would say that substantially vindicates me. It hasn't been all smoke and mirrors. And as he can cause quite as much trouble in Bristol as in London, if not more, I would say our duty to catch up to him remains acute. If it was six weeks ago he passed through, he will be there by now, and that means we must – "

"No opinion on returning to Bristol?" Geneva regarded him coolly.

"Should I have one?"

"You're from there, aren't you? Your father's ship was based there. And you ran away."

Silver's look said that he clearly did not appreciate her airing whatever he had told her in confidence to the rest of the table, though in practice that only meant Thomas. Madi knew at least that he was from Bristol, though Geneva wondered if she knew anything else. Perhaps Silver's objection was because he presumed Thomas would use the information as he himself would, to probe it for profitable avenues and potential weaknesses, and did not want to expose himself in such a way, to whatever strange sort of rival he fancied Hamilton to be. In that he was wrong, but Geneva saw no call to tell him just yet. Keeping Silver uncomfortable and off balance factored significantly into her plans, so he was welcome to think that Thomas was Niccolo Machiavelli reincarnated if it caused him a few sleepless nights. At least it might explain, in Silver's mind, what had attracted Flint to him.

"Yes," Silver said after a moment, forcing a pleasant smile. "I am, actually. So that gives us some advantage, as while I've not been to the place since I was a boy, I still know a thing or two about its underworld. How's the mercury? Can we be on our way tomorrow?"

"I'll check it when we return to the ship in the morning." Geneva caught Madi regarding her approvingly out of the corner of her eye, and could not help a certain small satisfaction. The lot of them remained shackled to each other for the time being, and she was aware that none of them could push hard enough to topple the whole house of cards until Bones' mysterious motives were in fact divined, but it was still enjoyable to tweak Silver's nose, pettiness or not. Instead, she raised her glass. "I'd say I've done well, gentlemen. Surely we can drink to that."

They did so, if somewhat reluctantly among certain (Silver) individuals, went upstairs to their rooms, and slept more or less restfully, awaking the next morning to a more-or-less clear sky with wispy contrails of white cloud obscuring the eastern horizon. However, when they packed up and made their way back to the _Rose,_ and Geneva inspected the mercury, she found that it had performed a significant plunge overnight. Not entirely enough to be alarming, but still indicative of some potentially interesting going, and she chewed her lip, mulling her options. The dog days of summer were ripe hurricane season, and she was not so eager as to pull one over on Silver as to willfully sail into a tempest, but she had dealt with some plenty nasty storms in the Indies, and already had a reputation as a solid foul-weather captain. It was true that the hourglass was dangerously running while Billy Bones was larking about in Bristol uncontested, and after her own cogitation failed to reach a firm answer, Geneva went on deck to put it to a vote.

"I'll trust your choice, my dear," Thomas said. "If you think it's something you can manage, then I say we proceed. It won't do anyone much good for us to idle at anchor in Bermuda."

"What did you think it was?" Madi asked. "A thunderstorm?"

"Aye," Geneva reassured her. "Bit of rain, bit of wind, perhaps, but nothing too terrible."

"Very well," Madi decided. "I also say we go."

"And?" Geneva turned with an arched eyebrow to the last member of the group. "Mr. Silver, what do you say?"

"It pains me to have to once more cast the dissenting vote," Silver said after a moment, "and is not at all what I myself wish to do, but I vote we stay. I've weathered a few storms that by rights should have killed me, and I have no wish to tempt fate by discounting this one ahead of time. It is plain, of course, that I would like to get to Bristol as quickly as possible, so I hope my vote can be seen in the appropriately serious light. I'm sure you've come through several Caribbean squalls, but an Atlantic gale is different. So yes. I vote we stay put until the mercury rises."

Geneva had half-wondered if he would swallow his pride and agree with the consensus, as his desire to catch up to Billy seemed genuine enough, but that, of course would be too simple an outcome. It was also to Silver's benefit to have more time to think of a plan or God knew what else he was up to, as well as subtly getting back at her for challenging him last night, and she could sense the underlying desire to thwart her, ever so slightly. He wanted her to reconsider, to listen to him, to show that she still deferred to his greater experience and his depth of knowledge – in short, that no matter what she liked to think about being able to go toe-to-toe with him, he remained in control of the enterprise. "Is that so, Mr. Silver?"

He shrugged. "You asked me for my opinion. I've given it. I believe that in such matters, however, the final call is customarily the captain's. If you say we go, I can't stop you."

Geneva and Silver stared at each other for a long, crackling moment, as Thomas and Madi both took slight steps in the former's direction. Back down now, and she would lose face, as well as some respect on her crew; they were quite used to sailing with a young woman for their captain, and proud of her for fearlessly facing whatever came their way, but might revise their opinion if they saw someone able to back her into a corner. They were all watching now, and she was not about to let Silver publicly defeat her like this. Besides, it was just a bloody thunderstorm. If she was scared of getting a bit wet, she might as well turn around right now and go home. And that, to be sure, Geneva Elizabeth Jones was not.

"Aye," she said. "We sail."

* * *

As they left the governor's mansion, considerably relieved that things had not gone nearly as pear-shaped as feared, Emma turned to David before he could help her back up into the waiting carriage. "Do you mind if I make my own way home? I have a few old places where I used to trade for information, and much as I appreciate Lord Gideon's efforts on our behalf, I'd prefer it if we did not have to completely rely on his version of events. I should be back by evening."

David blinked at her, taken aback. "Are you sure, Emma? Charlestown has changed a great deal since you lived here. I wouldn't want you to get into any trouble by yourself."

"I appreciate the concern, but I _was_ a pirate captain," Emma pointed out. "I handled myself alone in far rougher places than this. Besides, you're a well-known public figure, pillar of the community. I doubt anyone will think they can pass potentially compromising intelligence if you're standing there right behind me. Go back and tell the others what we've found out. As I said, I won't be longer than a few hours."

"Aye, but – "

"I'm quite sure," Emma repeated. "Thank you, Captain Nolan."

The slight curtness of the tone and the formality of his title made David swallow whatever further objection he was about to utter, clearly aware that the conversation was over. He did not look entirely convinced, but he tendered a politely correct bow, nodded to her, and climbed up into the carriage himself, as Emma watched to be sure that it had rolled away down the drive before she took the back route down toward the town and the harbor. She had cultivated a few useful contacts around the merchant locales she had visited both as Leopold White's maidservant and Patrick Walsh's wife, and while they were all liable to be dead or retired by now, some of the younger ones might still be around, or have children succeeding them who might be persuaded to do a favor for an old acquaintance of their parents. Murray might indeed be putting a good-faith effort into sorting things out, but Emma was not about to let her guard down. Not here, not in Charlestown, not with this much at stake.

A preliminary canvassing, therefore, yielded mixed results. Most of her old crowd were, unfortunately, long out of business (she tried not to think whether or not they might have perished in the sacking), but the mistress of a notorious local pot shop was still around – it was known as a good place to get a cup of cheap and savory soup, as long as you did not ask what kinds of meat possibly went into the cauldron. If the woman had a Christian name, Emma had never heard it, for everyone had always referred to her as the Blind Witch, and she was older, greyer, and more demented than ever, but still both alive and devoted to collecting all the scurrilous docklands gossip. "Lord Gideon Murray, eh?" she said, picking her snaggle teeth with a dirty fingernail, which she bit off, chewed on experimentally, and then spat out. "Oh, I suppose there's a thing or two I could tell you about that young rooster, did I have a mind."

Emma reached into her pocket and removed one of the guineas she had taken from the body of the assassin Killian had shot. She handed it over, let the witch bite it to confirm it was real gold, then pulled it back. "Could be that's yours, if you did have a mind."

The witch regarded her shrewdly through cataract-clouded eyes, not that she could actually see her, and stirred her bubbling pot. Evidently, she decided that the opportunity to turn this much of a profit did not come along every day, so she relented. "Arrived from London a few months ago. He's the son – adopted, at any rate, of Herself. And folk call _me_ a witch."

"Herself?" Emma repeated, frowning. "Herself who?"

"Oh, her ladyship. Fiona Murray. You'll know all about _that_ one, I'm sure." The witch turned to feel her way for a cracked brown-glass bottle containing some glutinous dark liquid, which she upended merrily into the stew. "Just like her brother, isn't she?"

"Her brother?"

"Well, her maiden name was Gold, wasn't it?" The witch kept stirring, inhaling the slightly mangy fumes with apparent relish, as Emma choked for more than one reason. "Married a Lord Malcolm Murray, a good deal older than her, then kept his name, his title, and his fortune when he conveniently keeled over a few months later. Think there've been a few more husbands after that, but they don't tend to last long. Runs in the family, then. Wouldn't you say?"

"Wait, her brother – " Emma felt a large chunk of ice run down her back. "Lord Gideon's adoptive mother's brother was. . . Lord Robert? Lord Robert _Gold?"_

"Oh, he was. Nobody knows what's become of him, though, once he had his hide tanned by the Nassau pirates those years ago." Apparently – or rather hopefully – not knowing that she was speaking to one in the flesh, the witch sampled her cooking on the spoon and offered some to Emma, which she hastily refused. "Dead, could be, but I doubt that old lizard died easily."

Emma opened and shut her mouth, suddenly feeling considerably less sanguine about Lord Gideon Murray's good nature than she had that morning. If he was Gold's adopted nephew, raised as the son of his evidently just as notorious sister, that allowed for any number of hidden motives to be pursued beneath the friendly and affable exterior. Indeed, if Gold had had any weakness, it was that it was so plainly a foolish idea to ever trust him that it at least put you on guard to always expect the worst from him. If Gideon had been instilled with his own healthy share of the family's manipulation and danger, while managing to cloak it beneath the appearance of a decent and caring man, that made him a formidable opponent indeed. Everything he had said about forgiving old grudges, about not unduly persecuting the pirates. . . had that been true, or just a clever front to get Emma to freely confess all that sensitive information to him, thinking herself protected from reprisal? Shit. _Shit._

"That's worth a guinea, I'd say," the witch prodded, when Emma remained silent. "You going to hand it over, pretty, or no?"

"Are you sure about this? That Fiona Murray is Robert Gold's sister, and it. . . is as you say?"

"Sure as sunrise. It mean something to you if she was?"

"No," Emma lied reflexively. Rattled, she distractedly gave the witch the guinea, made a mental note to never eat anywhere even near here in future, and headed out of the cluttered dockyards. It was getting on in the day, and she had, to say the least, plenty to report. Not wanting to trudge all the way back to the Nolans on foot, she hailed one of the public fiacres and climbed in.

It turned out, of course, that it would have been faster to walk. There was congestion caused by a runaway cow bottling up the main thoroughfare, they had to interminably sit and wait while the various carriages were cleared out by a bailiff with a large stick and a loud voice, and by the time they were finally rolling up to the estate, it was nearly dusk. When she got out, Emma found her highly agitated husband in his jacket and sword, a lantern on his hook, on the brink of setting out to look for her. When he saw her, he stared, briefly overcome with relief, and then gripped her arm hard with his good hand. "Bloody hell, Swan! I've been worried sick! Where on earth have you been?"

"I know, I'm sorry." Emma took the lantern off his hook and set it on the ground, but he did not look at all mollified. "I was just out asking questions."

"Asking questions?" Killian nodded up to Flint, who was also dressed as if he was about to join the search, telling him it wasn't needed. "All day?"

"Aye, I'm sorry I worried you. I thought – "

"David came back and said you'd insisted on going off by yourself, visiting your old haunts." Killian loosened his grip somewhat, though he didn't let go. "You just disappeared by yourself in _Charlestown_ for the whole day, and thought we wouldn't worry?"

"I – I just. . ." Emma trailed off. "I didn't want any of you exposed to the danger, I wanted to handle it without risking you. I thought if I could just – "

"Seeing as both of us were about to go out looking for you, we would have been on the streets, at night, anyway." Killian finally relinquished her arm, blowing out the lantern as they started up the walk toward the house. "I know it's been hard for you being here, Swan. That it's flaring up all your old instincts to go it alone. But that's not true, and it's no excuse for shutting us out and foraging off by yourself with no word at all. Come inside and at least apologize to Miranda, if not to me. She was more than half convinced you'd already been shot."

Emma flushed, went to reassure her mother of her still-living status, and once she had the others safely in the parlor, divulged what she had found out. The effect was as drastic as she could have dreaded. Flint bit back a scorching oath, Miranda looked even paler, and Killian turned to stone on the spot. Finally he said, sounding strangled, "Christ. Murray is Gold's nephew? I knew it! Of course everyone was right when they said we couldn't trust the bastard!"

"They never said that," Emma countered. "They only – "

"They said it clear enough, if we'd been wise enough to listen." Killian's nostrils flared. "We'll have to do something about this, we can't just let this stand. If Gold's still alive, if he's in league with Murray somehow, we'll have to handle this, we'll have to – "

"Are you actually advocating going after the governor of Charlestown in cold blood?" At this, it was Emma's turn to be angry. "You scold me for investigating him by myself, but if you think he deserves to be killed just because of some tenuous – "

"I didn't say he should be killed," Killian said tightly. "I said he should be handled."

"And what exactly did you mean, then?"

"Break down the door?" Flint suggested. "Bag over the head? Private chat, somewhere dark and quiet, with plenty of guns at the ready?"

" _No_ , both of you," Emma snapped. "It would seem I'm not the only one falling back into old habits, if you're both so ready to grasp for revenge at the thinnest of pretexts! We have no proof that Murray actually believes in anything Gold did, much less is trying to carry it out! I know who Gold was, you know I do, and the danger he posed – but Gideon is innocent until proven guilty. And if you think leading a witch hunt in this city of all places is going to work out well for us, then I'd seriously question what you wanted from it."

"Robert Gold destroyed my life, and Peter Ashe destroyed Flint and Miranda's. With those two for predecessors, I'm not sure we can sit around and wait until Murray proves himself to be a treasonous, faithless son of a – "

Voices were being raised enough to rattle the gilted mantelpiece, and at the sound of a concerned rap on the door, were modulated with an effort. Emma felt even more off balance and unhappy – she rarely argued with Killian, especially not this vehemently, and it was worse since neither of them were entirely wrong. Both had valid grievances about the other's old self-destructive behavior, but were already so on edge by being here that it was hard to put those passions aside and view the situation clearly and objectively. Emma agreed that it was unwise to naïvely sit and hope for Gideon's cooperation and good nature, but she was far less sure that that extended to a midnight ambush and kidnapping attempt, or whatever in the blazes else Killian and Flint had in mind. She loved her husband and her foster father very much, but in some dangerous ways, they were alike as two black peas in a pod, feeding into each other's old tragedies and vengeful impulses. Get that stone rolling, and it would be quite difficult to bring to a halt, especially without any damage to either. She would do much worse to prevent that possibility.

The silence in the drawing room continued to ring, loud as a shout. Then Killian spun brusquely on his heel. "I think I need some air. I'll be back in a bit."

"What? You're angry at _me_ for running off alone, and now you're going to – "

"I won't leave the grounds." Killian's voice was very short. "Don't wait up, Swan."

"Killian – "

He gave her a searing blue look as he pointedly unbuckled his sword and dropped it on the davenport, as if to prove that he would confine himself to a few heated circuits around the Nolans' expansive back lawn. The drawing room door slammed behind him, as did the French doors on the veranda, and Emma caught a glimpse of his dark shadow marking a sharp clip away across the grass. She watched him go, feeling leaden, then turned back to Flint and Miranda. "Tell me you don't agree with this reckless course of action. We have no proof. If old family connections were enough to convict a man on the spot, all of us would fall under the axe. We've fought this long to prove that our past does not define us. It's hypocritical to then turn around and do it to Gideon Murray, infamous uncle or otherwise. I'm not saying he's our friend, but if we react in haste to make him our unquestioned foe, we'll pay for it."

"Aye," Miranda said, after a moment. Her voice sounded strange, quiet and raw. "That's logical, my dear, and compassionately put. You have always wanted to believe the best of people, no matter how few reasons they sometimes give you. Even when you were a pirate, you never quite lost that impulse. It was a gift shared by few in that world, and I always admired it."

Something about this made Emma uncertain that it was entirely an agreement. "But?"

"But," Miranda said, still more quietly, "I am not sure that in this place, in this circumstance, we can afford to be quite so munificent. I agree that it's a fool idea to move against Murray openly, but we cannot sit and wait for solid proof. And if you defend the rights of your enemies against the sensibilities of your family, high-minded and generous as it is. . . well, you may only wish that you had had the opportunity to do differently."

Sensing Emma's objection, she put up a hand. "I know Murray is not clearly our enemy, not yet. I think, however, that Killian and James are correct in surmising that he will have to be considered one. Someone here was informing on us to Billy Bones, according to your brother's letter. Someone with the clout and ability to hire two assassins and send them to Savannah. If Murray's influence is as strong as it is said, I have great difficulty believing that this transaction could have taken place without his knowing of it. If he had nothing to do with it, I am more than happy to eat my words. But I scarcely need add that Robert Gold's nephew would have a considerable personal motive to do us ill, over and in addition to whatever Bones told him."

Emma had been about to say something else, but stopped. Finally she said, "We'll discuss it when Killian comes back. In the meantime, it's been a very long day, and I could more than do with some sleep. Good night."

With that, she made her own exit, angry and worried and feeling more like the frightened, alone seventeen-year-old than ever. She undressed and got into bed, but could not sleep well without Killian, and flopped from side to side on the mattress, doing nothing more than disordering the bedclothes. Where was he, anyway? It was becoming quite a long storm-around to blow off steam – unless he had been so angry that he had simply carried on straight to the ship and –

No, _no._ Emma shook her head hard. She and Killian had been married for twenty-five years, and had certainly had disagreements and fights before, which they always made up in due course. He was not about to be so petulant as to leave her over one like this, even if it was more serious than their usual. Though considering that he evidently felt that rushing out and hitting Gideon Murray over the head with a candlestick was a bloody brilliant idea, who knew, perhaps he was.

Unhappy and heartsick, Emma dozed uneasily and sporadically for a few hours, before waking up with a jolt in early predawn and realizing that Killian still had not come in. At that, her combination of anger and anxiety finally sharpened into fear. She threw off the covers, pulled on her dressing gown, and went downstairs. Questioning the Nolan servants revealed that Killian was not in the house, nor had they heard him return at any point in the night. They had not heard any disturbance or signs of a struggle in the house or grounds, so they did not think he had been taken anywhere against his will. Either he had become distracted with some vital midnight errand and would return shortly, or. . . well, would Mrs. Jones care for breakfast?

Emma was not at all hungry upon receipt of this news, and went to find Flint and Miranda, who were just coming downstairs, looking as if they too had passed a restless and unpleasant night. "Something's wrong. Killian never came back."

Flint opened his mouth, winced as Miranda stepped hard on his foot, and forbore to offer whatever he had been about to. Instead he said, "You're sure?"

"Aye, quite. I asked the servants, and he. . . he's gone."

"That's not at all like him." A fine line creased Miranda's brows. "Even if you had quarreled."

"I know." Emma struggled with the words, but forced them out anyway. She had to find some way to defeat the evil thrall this place had on her, the darkness it was creeping into her thoughts, the insinuating whispers that he had just up and gone anyway, that no matter how long or how intimate the connection was, it was still doomed to end in abandonment and heartbreak. "I. . . I know Killian wouldn't leave willingly and make me worry. But if not. . ."

"But if not," Miranda completed. The line drew deeper. "Then something has happened to him."

* * *

Saint Kitts and Nevis was one of the richest jewels in England's West Indies crown. The twin islands, part of the Leeward archipelago and barely fifty miles from the Royal Navy and provincial government headquarters on Antigua, were responsible by some reckonings for almost twenty percent of all of the Crown's lucrative sugar production in the Caribbean. Indeed, it had been the colonial capital until 1698, when the seat was transferred to Antigua, and it was terraced with plantations and sugarcane fields, requiring a slave population nearly as vast as Jamaica's to keep the wheels turning and the knives threshing. Accordingly, its mountains were likewise rumored to host their own hidden colonies of Maroons, and there remained much public unease about their presence, despite the fact that it was the African slaves who, in 1706, had fought off an attempted French invasion. Sugar production had been somewhat dented by this incident, but remained the place's chief lifeblood, and as Sam stared at the distant harbor, crowded with ships rocking at anchor, he could not help but think that most, if not all, of them were slavers. This was one of the first ports of call for vessels arriving from the Gold Coast of Africa, laden with their human cargo, who were taken straight out of the hold, sold at market, and sent to work on the plantations. They were here neither for sugar nor for slaves, but it still made him feel sick.

Why they _were_ here, and if it would actually work, remained a point of serious question. Sam was not remotely about to sail home with these dangerous lunatics in tow, and considering how delicate the subject of Skeleton Island was, his grandfather – even if he somehow remembered the exact bearings after twenty-five years, which was signally unlikely – was not in the least about to happily yield them up to a Spanish spy. Besides, they could not get so far back into English territory without difficulties, and whatever tenuous protection Sam had bought his family with this entire wild gamble would go up in smoke if Da Souza knew where to find them. He could not, at all costs, go back to Savannah. So instead he would have to – yet again – madly improvise.

The one (hah, one) difficulty in this, however, was that Da Souza and Jack were under the impression that Sam – if not quite certain on the particulars – had at least a middling-to-decent idea of where Skeleton Island was, how to get there, and whether or not the treasure was salvageable. In fact, Sam had absolutely no blinking, bleeding, blue-hell clue where the damn place was, except "well east of Nassau, out in the Atlantic," and that, to say the least, was something less than a specific direction. If his companions, who clearly had far more in common with each other and did not seem excessively fond of him, cottoned onto that, his use to them was negligible, and in fact his presence became an active liability. It would be easier to just eliminate him, via whatever handy method presented itself, rather than dealing with his entanglements with England and all the other danger he brought with him, just track Skeleton Island down themselves, and return to Güemes as conquering heroes. It was only their belief that he knew something important that was currently saving his neck. If they learned otherwise. . .

Sam had thus concocted this plan in hopes of improving the standing of his various endangered body parts, and he would have to proceed carefully. He remembered his sister saying something about a man on Nevis who sold charts, navigational equipment, and other sailing miscellany, often purchased from scrapped ships for wholesale prices. Geneva had acquired a number of useful items here, and while Sam knew that it was pushing his luck to the utmost to think that the dealer would just happen to have a copy of the incredibly rare chart that Captain Henry Avery had used to select the location of his treasure stashes back in the day, it was also better than nothing. Even if not that exact chart, there might be others, books or documents pointing toward the unmapped parts of the Caribbean, hidden islets that swashbucklers had used for secret bases. Skeleton Island _was_ a real place. Sam's mother and grandfather had been there. It had to be able to be found again. And after over a week on the voyage from Havana, Sam was more than ready to stretch his legs and get off this smelly, lurching tub. He really was not at all fond of sailing.

"Well," he announced. "We're here, so that's good. I'll just pop ashore and check that – "

"You think you're going by yourself?" Jack cocked an exceedingly skeptical black eyebrow. "Not everyone is as chronically dim-witted as you, you know."

Sam was insulted. True, this whole secret and subtle politicking bit did not appear to be his bag, but he thought "chronically dim-witted" was going a bit far. "I don't recall asking for the pleasure of your company, no."

Da Souza rolled his eyes. He had been subjected to a great deal of chunter in this vein for the past nine days, and could have been second-guessing his decision to be so keen on the whole "lots and lots of money" bit. (Then again, probably not.) _"Filho de mil putas_ , the two of you should just go have a drink and punch each other until you get tired. But yes. You, Jack Bell, you go with him. You are English, you draw less attention."

"And you?"

Da Souza smiled, revealing that sharp canine that always looked in search of a nearby neck to bite down on. "I am sure I can do some good business of my own, yes?"

"Er, right." Sam was about to ask, then decided that whatever a Spanish spy would be up to in one of England's most vital economic centers was a question better left unexplored. They were currently anchored in the Narrows, the thin spit of water that separated Saint Kitts and Nevis; true to its name, it was only a few miles wide, and the steep-sided cliffs of either island rose closely to either side of the _Senaita,_ which was the name of Da Souza's vessel. It sounded almost pretty, though Sam had quickly learned that it was in fact a vulgar Portuguese term for a woman's private parts. It was just a bit south down to the coast to Nevis' capital and largest settlement, which was called (ironically) Charlestown. But as Da Souza could not approach and enter openly, Jack and Sam would have to take the launch and row.

It required more arguing over the logistics, but this finally managed to occur. With a murmured word in low-voiced Spanish exchanged between Jack and Da Souza, which Sam watched with narrowed eyes, they climbed into the small boat, put the oars in the locks, and set off across the tranquil blue water. It was still early, and mist drifted in spiraling, ghostly columns like the Israelites' pillar of cloud, seabirds soaring and cawing in the updrafts. Sam could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck, shoulders straining as he pulled the oars. "What'd you say to him? Planning to stab me in a dark alley and make it look like an accident?"

"If I stab you, believe me, it will not be an accident."

"You know, mate." Sam let go long enough to wipe his forehead with the back of his arm. "You ever considered lightening up?"

Jack glared at him. "I can't believe I'm stuck with the worst bloody pirate in the history of pirates."

"Thought you didn't like pirates." Sam resumed rowing. "That's the sense I got, anyway. Though you sometimes don't sound far off from one yourself, what with English tyrants this, angry at the world that. So why would you care if I was one or not?"

"If you were a pirate, at least you might be useful." Jack pulled his oars without a pause, probably just to show that he could. Prick. "Instead you're – I don't know what you are, but it's not looking likely to get me out of this alive, and I do happen to care about that."

"Güemes stuck us together, that's not my fault. As for getting out of it alive, might be easier if you worked with me a little. I might not be a genius, but I'm also not a terrible bloke. Try it, you might like me."

Jack snorted. "I don't think I'm in any danger of that."

"Why not?" Sam was stung. People often liked him, and he was proud of that. He might not have the same skills as the rest of his family, but then, they weren't overflowing with friends (especially certain ones of them). "Just going to write me off at the start, for whatever you have against me that isn't my bloody fault? You chose where you were born and how, eh? Well, neither did I. So find a legitimate reason to dislike me, or sod off to your precious Spaniards, not that they actually trust you or ever will. Your neck's on the line as much as mine, as you yourself have noted, so all your toadying isn't going to do you the fat lot of good."

Jack's dark eyes flared. "It's not _toadying."_

"Oh yeah? Then what is it?"

"I've – " Jack started to say something else, realized that he had no call to account himself to Sam, and stopped. Tersely he said, "I've made choices, just as you have, not that I expect you to understand. You're fighting for something? Well, so am I. Leave it there."

Sam regarded the older boy for a moment, as they entered the breakwater of Charlestown harbor, sculled past the anchored slavers, and drew close to the piers. They looked enough alike – both tall and rangy, with long black hair and sun-browned skin – that it was possible to mistake them for brothers, not that he thought Jack would agree to such a demeaning subterfuge. _Not if it means pretending to be related to me, anyway._ He experienced another unwelcome prickle of insecurity, his ever-present fear that his family was ashamed of him, and did not want to feel it in regard to someone he had just met, who had a stick wedged very far up his arse and a streak of darkness that it would better not to cross. Sam wasn't afraid of anyone, as noted by his habit of impertinence to very important people, but he was nonetheless a bit apprehensive around Jack. He didn't even know why. Jack hadn't done anything, yet, to pose an open threat. It just hung around him somehow, the sense that pissing him off or pushing him too far would have unforeseen and dangerous consequences. Sam was generally adept at that sort of thing, somewhat too much for his own good, but he didn't want to tiptoe around the bastard, especially when he preferred to be friends with people rather than expend the unnecessary energy to hate them. If Jack was going to make that complicated, well. He'd deal with it later.

They reached the piers, bumped ashore, tied up the boat, and headed up the street, which was just beginning to open its shutters and hang out its shingles for business. Sam attempted to look authoritatively as if he knew where he was going, though all Geneva had said was that the man was on Nevis. He noticed that most of the people going about the morning routine were slaves, and swallowed another pang of anger. Slavery was a subject particularly close to his family's heart, and Sam's namesake had been known for his passionate fight against it – the _Whydah_ had been a slaver before he took her, he had a number of free Negroes on his crew, and the slaves of Nassau had risen up against Rogers and Gold in his name and that of the Maroons who had perished with him in the _Whydah's_ wreck. Sam Bellamy would not have been the slightest bit accepting of this setup, therefore, and Sam Jones could not help but wonder if he was also failing in the honor of the name, especially with Bellamy's bloody nephew striding alongside him and giving him occasional judgmental looks. _Who knows, it might be a good thing if I die. That way at least I can't cock it up any further._

At the top of the street, they found something that looked vaguely like a bookshop, though the legend painted on the sign was _J.A. Hamilton, Scrivener._ Sam considered it, decided it was a good place to start as any, then shrugged and pushed through. "Good morning. Anyone here?"

Inside, the property turned out to be a small and narrow clerk's cupboard, the sort of place where people would go to have legal documents drafted – wills, marriage contracts, property deeds, shipping registers, and doubtless several dozen bills of sale for slaves. Vigorous ringing of the tarnished handbell finally produced the clerk, a rather pale and sneezy-looking young man with red hair and a strong Scottish accent. "Ah, good mornin' then, can I be helpin' ye at all?"

"You sell charts? Or know the man who does? Sailing charts."

J.A. Hamilton blinked. "Er – sailin' charts? No, I dinna think we have those. If you're needing a scrip of credit, though, I can – "

"My sister told me about a man on Nevis who sold them." Sam wished he had paid more attention, but it had been another one of Geneva's sailing stories, and he'd heard plenty. Hence his oversight was now biting him in the arse, since of course it was. "Listen, Jimbo, if you can just point us in the right direction, we can – "

"James," the clerk said indignantly. "My name's James, son o' the laird of Grange, in Ayrshire."

"The son of a laird's stuck out here as a clerk in the West Indies?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "What'd you do to cheese him off, mate?"

James Hamilton was clearly not interested in answering questions of this nature, though Sam vaguely recalled that the laird of Grange was one Alexander, some or another of the various Hamilton family cousins – which included Lord Archibald Hamilton, former governor of Jamaica, notorious Jacobite, and first employer of the privateer Henry Jennings, and the late Lord Alfred Hamilton, his uncle Thomas's father (and equally notorious shitweasel, by the sounds of things). It seemed they fancied names with the letter A, for sure, but in any event, that was beside the point, and James would not be deterred. "D'ye want a legal paper or not?"

"No," Sam said, exasperated. "Charts. Maps. Sailing bits. Know where the bloke went?"

"Oh, ye mean auld Donald Kerr." At long last, comprehension lit in Hamilton's eyes behind the pince-nez. "He died, a few months back. His collection got auctioned off, dinna ken where all the rubbish went. Sorry, hope it wasna important."

"Hope it wasn't important?" Sam suppressed a very strong urge to scream. "Well, you're just brimming with useful information today, aren't you?"

Hamilton gave him a sniffy look, as if to ask what he was supposed to personally do, which might have been true, but was detrimental to Sam's aims of being annoyed about it. Seeing as they were not about to get anything else, he turned and marched out the door. "Totally crap excuse for a relative, that one," he remarked. "Nice change for it not to be me."

"Relative?" Jack looked at him strangely. "How on earth is he related to you?"

"He's not, technically speaking. He's some son of a cousin of my great-uncle's father. Though I think Grandpa killed him – the father, that is, because he was terrible, but never mind. He made their life hell since Granny and Great-Uncle Thomas were married, and he definitely – "

"Wait, what?" Jack was even more confused. "Your great-uncle is married to your grandmother? Isn't she married to, you know, your grandfather? And isn't that incest?"

"Yes, she is, but she's also married to Uncle Thomas – he's not really my uncle, it's just what me and Geneva and Henry always called him. They were married first, but Grandpa and Granny got married later on, and once they found out Uncle Thomas was still alive, they all got together again – Grandpa and Uncle Thomas are just about married too." Seeing Jack's completely blank expression, Sam faltered. "It's, ah. It's complicated."

"Clearly," Jack muttered. "Well, who is this Kerr fellow and can we find him?"

"According to Cousin Barney in there, he's dead, so that's not going to work." Sam kicked a paving stone in frustration. "Unless we can track down whoever bought his collection, which also isn't going to work, so – "

"It could," Jack pointed out. "Our friend might even have drafted up the bill of sale. We could go over his books, though I'm not clear what exactly we are looking for."

Sam hesitated. "A map," he said, which was, after all, not a lie. "There are some copies of Henry Avery's old charts I'd like to have a peek at."

"Henry Avery's charts," Jack repeated, with unflattering skepticism. "As in the legendary Henry Avery, pirate captain, because those are just lying around."

"Never know until you ask, do you?" Ignoring the further look of deep dudgeon thrown at him, Sam flung the scrivener's door open again and ducked inside. "Oy, Brutus, we're back. Need to have a look at any bills you might have done for Kerr's collection, and make it snappy."

"My name is not Brutus, and I dinna recall you have any right to – "

"Go get the sale books, Bartleby," Jack ordered. "Hurry up."

James Hamilton looked deeply miffed, as Sam shot a covert sidelong look at his companion – was that evidence of a sense of humor, lurking somewhere beneath all the gruff? "No. Ye canna compel me to do any such thing. And if ye carry on disturbin' me like a pair of wastrels, I will fetch the constables directly and – "

Jack sighed, cracked his knuckles, and with no preliminary whatsoever, just a swift, short, out-of-nowhere movement, punched the scrivener in the face. "Of course we can compel you," he informed the literally gobsmacked Hamilton. "Go get the fucking books."

Hamilton's mouth hung open, he sniffed back a few drops of blood, and seemed to briefly debate whether it was worth it to go mano-a-mano, at which the answer appeared to be no – he was only a year or two older than Sam, and he was considerably shorter than Jack. He shut his mouth with a click and scuttled off, as Sam eyed his companion sidelong again for a rather different reason. He appreciated the efficiency, and it wasn't as if he thought Hamilton would permanently suffer from a good whack in the nose, but that was exactly the reason why he knew he had to be careful. Jack had already said that if he stabbed him, it wouldn't be an accident, and seeing that, Sam couldn't be sure that he would at all hesitate in doing it.

Hamilton returned a few minutes later with a ledger, which he thrust at them with a baleful expression, and Sam, feeling remorseful, pulled some of his hard-stolen silver out of his pocket. Da Souza's men hadn't appreciated it, but it was legal tender here, so Hamilton likely would. "Hey. Sorry for the mess. We'll be on our way."

They stepped outside, set the ledger on a low brick wall, and paged through it, trying to decipher Hamilton's cramped and scrawling handwriting. At last, they came to the entries for the late Kerr's collection, and Sam ran a finger down the list of purchasers, muttering imprecations about the inconvenience of people just up and dying when they shouldn't. This didn't look terribly useful anyway. Just a bunch of bored rich twits, probably, decorating their drawing rooms with authentic nautical foofaraw in an attempt to look as if they knew far more about the whole thing than they definitely did not actually –

It was the last name that caught at Sam. Caught at him because as far as he knew, the man it belonged to was dead. Had been dead for a long time, and while he and Mum had been friends once, he had also been – more bitterly and notoriously – ultimately mortal enemies with Grandpa. In fact, Sam blinked once and then again, thinking he might be misreading. It could, of course, be someone else. But it was there. It stayed the same.

_B. Bones._


	6. VI

The city of Bristol and James Joseph Hawkins, Junior, did not get along. In fact it was some time since they had even been on terms of cordial acquaintance, and the relationship only appeared to be deteriorating. It was the general opinion that a young man of nearly five-and-twenty should have a proper and honest occupation by now, perhaps even a wife and child, but the problem with the proper and honest occupations was that they did not like Jim either. He had enlisted in the Royal Navy at the age of sixteen, thinking to follow in the footsteps of his father and of his distant ancestor Sir John Hawkins, the famous Elizabethan seafarer, adventurer, explorer, and defeater of the Spanish Armada (along with his cousin, Sir Francis Drake), but the Navy was a bloody cesspool of human misery, shit, blood, and weak grog, and Jim's habit of disrespect to his superiors had not helped the problem. It was a mark of the impression he had made that even the Navy, which was normally so desperate for able-bodied men that the press-gangs would kidnap apprentice greengrocers if needed, decided it could not tolerate him. He had been drummed out in disgrace, sent home to the disappointment of his mother and the dismay of their neighbors, and spent a few aimless months accomplishing nothing in particular. He tried to help out at the old Benbow, the inn the widowed Sarah Hawkins ran on the waterfront, but "help" was rarely accomplished when Jim was involved. He earned a few shillings working as a longshoreman, loading and unloading the cargo of the arriving ships, fat with the spoils of the Bristol slave trade, but if he had to spend the rest of his life like this, he'd kill himself.

Jim really had not set out to be such a disappointment. He had thought several times about rejoining the Navy, as he wasn't a bad sailor and his father, James Hawkins senior, had served with distinction as purser aboard HMS _Imperator,_ a career which had claimed his life when Jim was very young. He did not in fact remember his father at all, as Hawkins had set out to the Caribbean when Jim was only a few months old, and never returned. The story was that he had been killed by pirates, which was rather a romantic fate, but not a particularly useful one for a lonely and misfit lad whose mother loved him, but could not spare the time and effort to deal with all his troubles. It had been good for a brief pittance of money from the Admiralty, which was gone in a few years anyway, and yet one more sense that Jim had let someone else down by his failures, of hating that life so much. But not even for the sake of pleasing his father's shade could he stand to return. So he was here instead, vexing everyone else.

Most recently, Jim had tried to get a job with his uncle at the Seven Stars, the pub he ran in Thomas Lane, but as that was still close enough to the Benbow, which was located on the Narrow Quay on Prince Street, for tales of his exploits to travel, that had likewise backfired. So then it was back to the docks, from which he also managed to get himself sacked after an altercation with some miniature bastard of a cloth merchant who insisted Jim was purposefully damaging his trade goods (it was _cloth,_ it couldn't bloody _break,_ what was the damned _problem?)_ That left him emphatically and, to the looks of things, all but permanently unemployed. It would be the bottle and debtor's prison for him, or something worse. At points, the gallows did not seem at all out of the question. The things he put his poor mother through, the neighbors whispered. Really, with a son like that, they did not know how Sarah stood it.

It had been the end of June when the old mariner arrived, and things changed.

Jim, put out of work and thus unhappily back at the Benbow, had been ordered to help haul and carry and otherwise make himself less than actively catastrophic. The man had not particularly caught his eye at first, as all sorts of sailors and sea dogs and old salts (and those who fancied themselves such) passed through here. Bristol was a bit of a fool place to have a port; it was seven miles inland from the Atlantic along the River Avon, so ships had to navigate the shallow estuary before reaching the sea, and you could always spot the amateurs who had come to grief in getting here. This one, however, was certainly not an amateur. He was uncommonly tall, with a grizzled grey-blonde beard, knotted muscles, and a wary, suspicious way of peering out at the world. He carried a small hardwood chest with him, banded in bronze and locked up tight, which he doted on as if it were his unmarried maiden daughter and never let out of his sight. He wore a tattered cloak and slouch hat, arrived in the Benbow's common room at nine o'clock in the morning, and was drinking in the corner by ten. The only name he gave to the startled Sarah, who had dealt with colorful customers before but not quite this, was _Bones._

Jim watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering if the urge to punch him would arise, though he hoped not; he could hurt his hand, whacking a bloke of that size. Bones' gold was good – more than good, it was some hefty old coin, etched in some old writing Jim couldn't read – so there was no reason to turn him out, but the other patrons kept eyeing him nervously. In the past, and still at times in the present, the Benbow catered to the Navy men who had been Hawkins senior's friends and colleagues, and Bones looked like the sort who, just by something in his fundamental nature, would have a problem with Navy men. Jim couldn't blame him for that, but one more run-in with the Bristol magistrate would stretch the limits of his luck to the utmost, and he wanted to avoid any dust-ups if possible. Even if he protested, truthfully, that he had not started it, they would not be surprised in the least to find him in the middle of it.

Bones drank for most of the afternoon, duly paying for each tankard brought to him, until at last, as Jim was setting down the next one – having been made to serve this particular customer, as the maidservants were afraid of him – he cracked a bleary eye and regarded Jim with a blend of curiosity and hostility. "Don't you have something better to be doing, lad?"

"No, actually." Jim picked up the empty stein. "Don't you?"

Bones looked as if he was thinking of saying something tart in response, but conceded the point with a grunt. "Ale's good," he said, evidently by way of explanation. "And I've a while to wait. You hire rooms?"

"We're full up," Jim said, which was a lie, but he doubted anyone wanted this hobo loitering around any longer than necessary. "You can try the Seven Stars, that's my uncle's pub."

"Seven Stars?" At last, something flickered in Bones' blurred eyes. "The one on Thomas Lane?"

"Aye. Why? Heard of it?"

"Was there a time or several as a lad. My parents were printers. In Plymouth. Fixed up pamphlets about tyranny and slavery and man's right to determine his own destiny. They traveled there often to hold meetings, and I'd sell the pamphlets for two groats." Bones smiled bitterly, half to himself. "That was what got me snatched by the press gangs, I always reckoned. In retaliation."

Jim was surprised, not least that this weathered old tree stump actually had parents and had ever been young. "You're from Plymouth, then? Turning up here to visit old haunts?"

"This is my first time back in England since I was kidnapped. I was thirteen." Bones' basilisk stare remained unswerving. "It still reeks of mold and shit."

Jim could not deny that. He shot a glance back over his shoulder, but the evening wasn't that busy (doubtless in part due to Bones himself scaring off the customers) and his mother appeared to have it under control. He hesitated, then took a seat. "So where've you been?"

"Around." Bones' mouth twisted.

"You planning to keep going?"

"What's it to you if I am?"

"If you were in the market for an assistant before you left, well." Jim shrugged. "I'm available."

Bones stared at him, then barked a laugh. "Wanting to take up with me, boy? You really must be desperate."

This was of course true, but Jim did not feel like admitting it. Affecting casualness, he plucked up one of the half-finished tankards and took a drink. "I've been stuck here ever since they th – I, ah, I left the Navy. Think it'd be better for everyone if I found somewhere else to go."

"Former Navy?" Bones' voice said that he had a number of opinions on this, equally divided between rampant hatred for the bastards and Jim's decision to ever join in the first place, and grudgingly commending him for being smart enough (or rather, troublesome enough) to leave. "Better than current, I suppose."

"My father was." Jim didn't know what possessed him to bring it up, but Bones had mentioned his own parents earlier, and this was the longest conversation he had had without being shouted at in too depressingly long a time to remember. "In the Navy, that is. I tried to make it work for his sake, but it. . . didn't."

"Father?"

"Aye. I had one too. Also James Hawkins, he was the purser on HMS _Imperator._ He was killed a long time ago, though. In Nassau, by the pirates."

Something definitely flickered in Bones' eyes at that. "HMS _Imperator,_ you say? Was that before or after she turned pirate herself?"

"Wait, what?"

"You don't know? The _Imperator_ became one of the most notorious pirate ships in the Caribbean, the _Jolie Rouge._ Under the command of one Captain Hook." Bones' mouth twisted even further. "Taken over by Captain Rackham after the war, or so I heard later. Your father one of those scurvy brigands, then?"

"No. He was an honorable man, a loyal one. The Admiralty specially commended his devotion to duty in the letter they sent to my mother." Jim looked down. "I was just a baby when it happened. He'd. . . probably be disappointed in me."

Bones considered briefly, then hauled himself to his feet, scooping up the chest. "I'll see your mother about a room, then."

"Ah – " Jim hesitated. "Well, er, I did say that we were full – "

Bones gave him a look as if to say that this had been so transparently a lie that he had not wasted a moment's thought on it, and that he had dealt in his day with such an advanced class of liars that Jim would have to do much better to even qualify. Wavering only slightly from the considerable quantity of ale he had consumed, he stumped off, got himself a room – the Benbow was a bit down at heel these days, they couldn't be turning away admittedly well-paying customers – and went upstairs. That left Jim still none the wiser about his full name, why he had turned up in England now after what must be close to forty years overseas, who or what he was waiting for, how long he planned to stay, what was in the chest – and what he knew about Nassau. Jim could be mistaken, but he was quite sure that Bones had registered that on considerably more than an abstract historical-interest level. _He knows something. Might have been there during its glory days, with Flint and Vane and Hornigold, Blackbeard and Bellamy and the rest._ (Jim had read _A General History of the Pyrates_ several times, and was felt to have more interest in this subject than was entirely healthy for anyone's peace of mind.)

That was how it went for the next week. Bones sat in the common room, drinking steadily, or went out on hours-long errands, returning late after the doors had been locked (most taverns only had a license to operate until nine o'clock at night on working days, ten o'clock on Saturdays) and obliging Jim to go down grumbling to open them and let him in. "You do realize there's a curfew, don't you?" he demanded, after the third such incident. "You'll be swept up by the constables if you keep doing this, and I'm guessing neither of us want any better of an acquaintance with them."

Bones looked at him with a brief, guarded flash of amusement. "Local miscreant?"

Jim squirmed. "I'd just like to avoid it."

Bones studied him for a long moment. Then he said abruptly, "Very well. I'll cease these expeditions if you tell me – and only me – if there's a letter or any other message from a Lady Murray. Also, if you spot anywhere, or even hear about, the presence of a one-legged man."

"A one-legged man?" Jim blinked. "What's this one called, Hopper?"

"No." Bones did not look amused. "As a matter of fact, Silver."

"Friend of yours?"

"Definitely not." Bones' tone had turned even cooler. "Just do it."

"What's in it for me?"

"Aside from avoiding run-ins with the constables? Here."

With that, he unclicked the locks on the chest with a complicated set of spins (Jim tried to follow, but quickly lost track), reached in, and pulled out a ruby the size of his thumbnail, which he casually lobbed at the startled young Hawkins. Jim managed to catch it, and before Bones slammed the lid, he thought he caught a glimpse of something rolled up – maps, or charts, or something that looked navigational of some sort. "Bloody hell," he said, turning the ruby so it caught the low light, winking scarlet in its facets. "Where'd you get this?"

Bones grunted, checking that the chest was locked again and hoisting it under his arm. He appeared set to stagger off to bed, then stopped. "You ever heard of Captain Flint?"

"Flint?" Jim blinked again. "The master of the _Walrus?_ I've read the stories, aye. He's dead, though, isn't he? Been dead a while."

Bones did that now-familiar facial expression where he was deciding not to say anything. "Plenty of men have claimed to be him before they hanged, yes. Good night."

He headed off down the dim hall before Jim knew quite how to respond, more confused than ever. He wasn't sure that half of this was not paranoid ranting and raving; Bones wasn't exactly insensible with drink, but he was a long way from sounding sane and sensible – one-legged men, letters from a mysterious lady, that odd question about Flint as if he expected Jim to know a legendary pirate captain personally. Jim had paid a visit to the Seven Stars the other day, though, and his uncle dimly recalled hearing about a William and Anne Bones, printers from Plymouth, who had used the place for meetings many years ago. They had had a son, he was also fairly sure, but didn't know if he had ever heard the boy's name. This had all happened during his predecessor's tenure as landlord anyway, so he couldn't be sure. Why the sudden interest, anyway?

Jim had made some noncommittal noise – he thought it was for the best if word did not get around that an old firebrand and scion of subversive intellectual stock was staying at the Benbow – but it at least confirmed that Bones was, so far as that went, telling the truth. Jim could not deny that he was burning up with curiosity, and this did give him something to think about apart from the dismal prospects of his future. He could also not exactly stroll up to a merchant in the street and spend the ruby, so he would either have to get all the way to London, to the Bank of England on Threadneedle-street, and obtain an exchange into currency, or visit one of the counting houses along the docks. As he was clearly not going to London, that left the latter option, but those bastards cheated fit to outdo the Devil Himself, and they definitely also hated Jim. He'd just keep it for now. As a down payment.

The following week likewise did not stimulate any sudden desire on Bones' part to be forthcoming, and Jim decided to take matters into his own hands. It had been over a fortnight of him loitering around and drinking their casks dry, there had been a near-altercation with a snippy fresh-promoted lieutenant off HMS _Glory,_ and Sarah Hawkins was starting to fear what rumors might attach to them if this kept up. Jim knew that he had caused her a good deal of heartache and worry already, and this at least was in his power to do something about, so he bought a seat on the public stagecoach that made the weekly circuit between Bristol and Plymouth. It was a hot, jouncing, stuffy three-day ride for the hundred and twenty miles south, stopping at various rural hamlets to collect the post along the way, sitting across from a middle-aged gentlewoman and her two frilly daughters who eyed him disapprovingly from behind their fans, but he arrived more or less in one piece.

The Bones parents were long dead, but after combing through the gravestones in St. Andrew's churchyard, Jim finally found them – put in an out-of-the-way corner and heavily grown over, with no other living relative to tend their upkeep. (Likely as well they had not made themselves popular in the community for their rabble-rousing.) But by taking the dates, recalling that Bones had said he was snatched by the pressers when he was thirteen, and reckoning him to be in his middle fifties, Jim went to the parish archives, concocted some tale about doing a favor for an elderly relative, and flipped through the dusty old baptismal registers, squinting at their bloody awful handwriting, until he finally hit on it. One William Fitzgilbert Bones IV, son of William Fitzgilbert Bones III and Anne Cranmer Bones, had received the sacrament of Anglican baptism on the thirty-first of May, 1683 A.D., eleven days after his birth on the twentieth.

Seeing as the dates, the names, and the location all matched, Jim could be quite confident in feeling that he had found his man. Searching a few years on for the confirmation noted it as being given to "Billy," and he disappeared from the records altogether after the winter of 1696. If he _had_ been back to England at any point in the subsequent forty-four years, it had not been here.

 _Billy Bones, then?_ Jim could swear that the name was faintly familiar, though for the life of him he could not think why. He headed out and gritted his teeth for the return journey to Bristol, this time eyed up by a weedy country solicitor and a young vicar who already looked set to die of consumption, and wondered if he should confront Billy with his findings. Not that it offered any clarity on his present or future, only confirmation of his past, and nothing very helpful at that. Whoever he was waiting for, this Lady Murray or otherwise, they should damn well hurry up and get here. Either Billy did something or he didn't, but either way, Jim's patience was running short. Make a move, or bloody leave.

He finally got back to Bristol on a particularly sticky late-summer night; the trip had taken an extra four days due to the coach breaking an axle in Exeter. As Jim was climbing out, stiff and sweaty and hungry and otherwise out of sorts, he caught sight of a man and a woman making their way up the docks from a recently anchored ship. The woman was stylishly dressed in black, high-cheekboned and beautiful, and the man was around Billy's age, with brown-grey curls and a scruffy beard – not to mention a thoroughly distempered look. Something about them caught Jim's attention, and as he trailed after them, as they reached the street and set off, he realized to his considerable surprise that they were also making for the Benbow. _Bloody hell, is that her? Bones' mysterious Lady Murray? Who's the other bloke, then?_

He followed them at an unsuspicious distance, and once they had gone inside, waited a few minutes and then did the same. The woman was having rather demanding words with poor Sarah Hawkins, while the man was standing stock still, looking like an ox that had been hit on the head. "Christ," he muttered. "It's exactly the bloody same."

"Scuse," Jim said. "Can I help you?"

The man started, looked around – and if he had been confronted by a ghost to walk into the Benbow, it was twice that to lay eyes on Jim. He blanched. _"Hawkins?"_

"Wait, what? My name is Hawkins, aye. Jim Hawkins. But I don't recall we've met."

"No, we. . . we haven't." The man belatedly composed himself, running a hand over his face. "I'm. . . I'm sorry. You look very much like your father, is all."

That, to say the least, Jim had not expected. His heart skipped a beat. "You knew my father?"

"I knew him well, yes." The newcomer swallowed and glanced down, before meeting Jim's gaze as forthrightly as possible. "My name is Captain Liam Jones. Your father served as purser under me on HMS _Imperator,_ from the moment my brother and I took over the ship. He was a good man. All but a father to us as well, in many ways."

" _You're_ the captain of the _Imp –_?" The surprises were coming thick and fast. It seemed uncouth to ask if Captain Jones was aware that his old vessel was, according to Billy, a pirate ship, but this was the first time that Jim had ever met anyone who had served with his father – much less his former commanding officer. "The devil are you doing in Bristol, then? Er, sir?"

"That," Captain Jones said grimly, "I very much want to know myself. I was removed from my home by _her –_ " he tilted his head scathingly at the woman in black, still haggling with Mrs. Hawkins – "and have been allowed no opportunity to send word to my wife. Mrs. Regina Jones, of the Rue Malebranche in Paris. If there's any way you can help me dispatch a letter – "

"That won't be necessary." The woman in black had evidently overheard him, even though he had been speaking quietly, and turned to regard them with a pleasant smile. "Surely you recall Sarah Hawkins, Captain? Come, make your greetings."

"I – Mrs. Hawkins." Liam Jones politely doffed his hat. "It has been a. . . very long time."

"Liam?" Sarah blinked, then stared. "Liam _Jones?"_

"Aye, the same."

"This has been an age and then some, my heavens! Where's Killian? We did hear some dread tales about what happened to him, but I never believed them. Your brother was always such a sweet lad. Still the politest lieutenant I've ever met."

Liam's mouth tightened. "Killian is. . . likewise enjoying a quiet retirement. He lives with his family in America."

"Oh, really? America, fancy that. Whereabouts?"

Liam's eyes flickered to the woman in black, who was listening avidly. "The Colonies, someplace. It's been many years since I've seen him, they could have moved."

"That will be strange, then," Sarah said sympathetically. "The two of you were always together before."

Liam nodded, seemingly at a loss for words, and the silence was poignant until the woman in black clapped her hands. "Captain, don't you want to vouch for us to your old colleague's wife? Seeing them again after so long, it would be a shame for the reunion to go sour all at once. Likewise, insisting on sending word to your wife – we don't want young Jimmy in any more trouble, do we? Poor lad suffered enough, especially growing up without his father."

Jim was insulted at being spoken of as if he was five, not twenty-five – for all his missteps and misadventures, he _was_ an adult, if perhaps a completely shit one – and thus missed the sinister undertone in this. Indeed, he only realized that there had been one by the look of pale, barely restrained fury on Liam's face. After a moment, sounding choked, he said, "Sarah, if you would see fit to provide lodgings to Lady Murray and myself for the time being, I think everyone would be grateful. We shouldn't be long. For – for James' memory."

Jim supposed that this was in reference to his father, even as his mother's eyes welled up, she came around to hug Liam, and promised that of course the Jones brothers were always welcome beneath her roof. Liam himself hugged her with such an anguished, guilty expression – which only Jim saw – that it finally clicked. Lady Murray was not-so-subtly threatening Jim, Sarah, and the entire Benbow if Liam withheld or complicated his compliance in any way, and given what he had said about being snatched from the streets in France, it seemed that he was not here of his own volition. But whatever the bloody hell the whole lot of them were cooking up, Jim had rather suddenly lost any taste to play along.

He kept trying to get a moment alone with his mother that evening, to warn her, but the supper hour was ludicrously busy, and they and the barmaids were all run off their feet. When the rush finally subsided, he tried to pull Sarah aside in the scullery, but Lady Murray – who seemed to have a dozen ears – popped up on the instant with some query about the rooms she had purchased, and Sarah was obliged to take her upstairs to sort it out. Jim stood swearing under his breath, then spun on his heel and marched into the emptying common room, where Liam and Billy – _Jones and Bones,_ it sounded like the opening to a tuppence vaudeville – were sitting in a corner and glaring at each other suspiciously. It was difficult to imagine a meeting of two more stubborn individuals, or two set so intractably to either side of an affair and forced unwillingly into conjunction. _The only question is who blows first._

"So," Jim said flatly, coming to a halt in front of them and folding his arms. "Tugging my mother's heartstrings to advance you and your lady friend's slimy little intrigues, _Captain?_ And to think my father respected you."

It was contentious, purposefully so, as he good and damn well intended to provoke Liam into a response one way or another. In this it succeeded, as the older man's face flushed brick red. "I have nothing to do with Lady Murray, _or_ her intrigues. I am staying, in fact, because I fear what she'd do to you and your mother if I tried to leave. But – "

"She said she'd recruit us a captain," Billy interrupted. "I bloody well wasn't expecting it to be you. And are you going to tell the landlady what really happened to your brother, or should I?"

Liam grimaced. His voice when he spoke, however, was chillingly cold. "If you put Killian, or the rest of his family, in danger for the sake of your old fucking grudge against Flint, I swear – "

"Flint?" Jim broke in. "As in the same Flint you were asking me about, _Billy?"_

That caught Bones, finally, decidedly on the hop. "I – how did you – "

"Went to Plymouth," Jim informed him. "You're from there, just as you said. Billy Bones – that's you, isn't it? I haven't worked out what the hell you're up to, or how the rest of you fit in, but you leave my mother and the Benbow out of it. This old place is all she has, it's not making as much as it used to, and I, well, I've not made her job any easier. If you need headquarters for your evil plots, piss off somewhere else. I don't care if you and my father used to sail together, Captain. I tried the Navy myself. Didn't take."

That, at least, sufficiently surprised Liam and Billy so that neither of them had an immediate response. Then the former said, "Jim, I – "

"Shut it," Jim said, more wearily than anything. "For what it's worth, I did reckon that you weren't here because you wanted to be. But I want some answers, and I want them now. What's in that chest? What are you scheming? And what would a bloody one-legged man, _or_ a supposedly dead pirate captain, have to do with any of this?"

Liam and Billy exchanged a look, briefly forced into alliance by their mutual unwillingness to explain – Liam to try to keep Jim out of danger, Billy because he was clearly a true believer with a very large axe to grind against person or person(s) unknown, and Jim was starting to have more than an inkling that it might just be Captain Flint. There was another hesitation. Then Liam said, "I scarcely know much more than you. All I have been told is that Lady Murray wanted my old connections here in Bristol, and now that evidently I am being recruited as a captain for a voyage. It is customary, in case it's slipped your mind, to tell said captain where that bloody is."

Billy ignored the sarcasm. "Leave if you want, Jones. I was confident in our ability to manage the plan without a third party, so I won't be trying to stop you. Besides, I'm the one with the bearings, so unless I give them up – "

"The bearings." At that, a dawning look of realization, and further anger, crossed Liam's face. "Oh, Christ. She told me in the carriage, but I didn't think anyone would be that foolish. You really are trying to hunt down Skeleton Island, aren't you? That's what this is about. You have – or think you have – a way to find the damn place and retrieve the treasure, and you've offered to sell the information to Lady Murray in exchange for whatever favor she's promised you. Whatever she wants the money for, God knows, but it can't be good. What's so bloody worth making bargains with _her?"_

"You tell me." Billy remained unyielding. "Haven't you climbed into bed with a few devils in your own day, all for your personal benefit?"

Liam opened his mouth, made an angry sputtering noise, and shut it. Jim, for his part, was still hung up on the earlier bit. "Skeleton Island? Isn't that just a story?"

"No," Billy said, still more darkly. "Trust me, it's real. I was marooned there for three years."

Just as Jim was about to remark that this seemed to explain a great deal about Billy's character and general personality, it struck him that he had not seen his mother for a while – that he had indeed let her go upstairs alone with Lady Murray, even when warning her about the woman was precisely what he meant to do. He jumped to his feet, heart in his throat, even as he thought he smelled something from neither hearth nor lantern nor lamp. Smoke.

"Son of a bitch," Jim said, pivoting around and starting to run. "Son of a _bitch!"_

He thought either Liam or Billy might have shouted after him, but he did not stop to hear. He crashed up the narrow stairs, heard doors opening and the Benbow's other guests hurrying out with alarmed shouts, and could very definitely see a dark cloud billowing from under the door at the end. He sprinted down the corridor and yanked and rattled at the handle, but it was locked. "Mother? Mother!"

There was no answer from within, and Jim slammed his shoulder into the latch hard enough to bruise. The smoke was intensifying quickly, stinging his eyes and searing his throat, and if he ran downstairs long enough to find something to break it with, it could be too late to make it back. He wrenched and pounded again, able to hear the crackle of flames, and was just about to try taking a running start and diving into the door headfirst when someone shoved him aside. Liam, cravat soaked in water and tied over his nose and mouth, battered violently at the wood with the poker from the kitchen hearth, until it finally splintered. "I'll get her!" he yelled at Jim. "Run!"

Jim remained exactly where he was, as he did not trust this man with his mother's safety. Yet in a few moments, Liam emerged from the eerie orange glow with the unconscious Sarah Hawkins slung over his shoulder – at least Jim hoped it was unconscious, as the alternative did not bear thinking of – and Liam grabbed him by the arm, dragging him along the corridor as it blackened behind them. They made it to the stairs and clattered down, through the common room, and burst into the dark street, just in time to hear the roar as first the wall, and then the roof, crashed in fiery fountains. Bells had started to ring in alarm, and the neighbors were forming a bucket brigade from the riverfront. Jim ran to assist, as a fire in old, wooden, crowded buildings like this was everyone's worst nightmare. The Great Fire of London in 1666, less than a hundred years ago, had started as a similar small, isolated blaze, and would have flattened the entire city if it had reached the gunpowder stocks in the Tower. There might not be a fully loaded armory here, but given his already delicate relationship with Bristol, Jim could not help but think that burning the lot of it down – even if it was not directly his responsibility – would be regarded very dimly indeed. Bloody hell. Bloody, _bloody_ hell.

It took countless buckets, an assist from the stout brass fire engine with its pump crew, and the sacrifice of several nearby barrels, troughs, and anything else that could hold water, but they finally got the fire out before it could spread down Prince Street. This, however, came far too late to save the Benbow. It was a burnt-out, steaming husk, charred beams tilting and falling in thunders of ash and soot, embers still spitting sparks, as the neighbors gathered in anxious, muttering knots before turning their communal accusing stare on Jim. "Mr. Hawkins. Care to explain?"

"Look, for once, this is not my bloody fault." Jim shoved through the crowd to where Liam was crouched by Sarah, helping her to sit up and weakly sip some water. His heart turned over with relief at seeing her alive, as he threw himself to his knees next to her. "Jesus, Mother, are you – that bloody witch started it, didn't she? Lady Murray? Where'd she – "

He glanced around, as if expecting to see the woman, but he could not spot either her or Billy among the crowd. It was probably far too much to hope that the bloody pair of them had just up and died, and Jim wasn't normally the sort to wish that on folk – a nice crisp roasting around the edges as a sharp lesson, sure, but burning to death seemed a bit much. Still, he stood up. "Anyone seen her? Woman in black, looks like she'll eat your ballocks for breakfast? Or the other one, the big blonde bastard? Bones?"

Blank looks greeted this enquiry, as it hit Jim that his efforts to keep Bones' presence under wraps had evidently worked too well – either they did not know who he was talking about, or figured he was seizing on a harmless old drifter as a convenient culprit for his own crime. Why they thought _he'd_ want to burn down the Benbow was a mystery, but he had to admit it was just the sort of thing they would expect from him, inadvertently or not. It didn't help that he did feel bloody responsible – if he'd not let his mother go off alone with Lady Murray – but why would he expect her to set the damn place afire, when she'd already gone to such effort to get Liam to secure them rooms? God, what a mess. Given how Jim had just about nailed shut the coffin on his chances of getting work anywhere else in Bristol, there was no obvious way of paying for the repair, or much money to support them in the meantime. He did still have the ruby Billy had given him, as he kept it in his pocket, which he'd now have to fence somewhere, but –

A brief and mad idea crossed Jim's mind, but was gone as quickly as it had come. Besides, Billy and Lady Murray were gone, literally up in smoke, so there was no way of finding Skeleton Island even if it was real. Instead, he looked back at his mother. "Hey. I'm sorry, I should never – if I'd known Lady Murray was going to do that – she did, didn't she?"

"N-no." Sarah Hawkins shook her head, eyes wide and staring in her soot-smeared face. "No. She didn't."

"What?" Jim was not remotely about to buy that this had been a coincidental accident. "What do you mean, she – "

"He did," Sarah insisted. _"He_ did."

"What? Bones? We were downstairs with him the whole time, I'm not sure I like him either, but this at least, he – "

"No. No, he did."

"Mother, you're not making any sense." Jim frowned at her. Glancing up at Liam, he demanded, "There wasn't anyone else in the room, was there?"

"No." Liam looked unnerved, as well as rather offended at the resulting implication that he would have left them to burn alive if so. "Only her, not any – "

"He did!" Sarah raised a shaking hand – and pointed directly at Liam.

There was a brief, stunned silence, and then a murmur of anger. Jim was equally startled, as well as about to note that he had likewise been downstairs with Liam the whole time, not to mention that Liam had saved her life. But an instant of doubt caught at him – if Liam had set it somehow while Jim was distracted trying to talk to his mother, sat back and waited, and thus known to get upstairs so quickly and rush to the rescue – and that prevented him from saying anything long enough for the notion to immediately take root among the crowd, fractious and on edge and searching for someone to blame. They advanced on Liam and the Hawkinses, reaching out, as they grabbed hold of Liam and dragged him off down the street, shouting.

Jim did not _think_ they were going to string him up from a yardarm, but it might not be out of the question. With a word to his mother telling her to wait, he managed to struggle to his feet and run after the mob. "Hey. HEY! At least take him to jail first! You can't just – "

Someone, not inclined to listen and doubtless still convinced that he was to blame somehow, backhanded him across the face, and Jim saw stars. Then someone else punched him, he had to punch back, and the whole thing devolved on the spot into a chaotic free-for-all. Jim's face hit paving stones at least twice, clenched knuckles several more times than that, and he was twisted and hauled headfirst through some reeking puddle, the citizens of Bristol finally getting a chance to vent their accumulated frustrations with him, as something else banged his chin, he bit his tongue so hard that he half-expected to spit it out, and tasted blood. Then someone lifted and flung him bodily, he hit someone else, and he and Liam Jones landed arse-first in some dismal damp cell, just in time to hear an iron grate slam shut above them. "You'll hang soon, you bastards!" someone yelled, and then they were gone.

Jim sat where he was, gasping for breath in raw, whooping gulps, a hank of chestnut hair loose and pasted to his face with mud and blood, both lips split and a fine shiner rising on his left eye. Frankly, killing someone did not sound like a bad idea after all. "I swear," he said at last. "If you did set the fire, I'll – "

"I didn't." Liam grimaced, drawing a painful few breaths of his own. "Christ as my witness, I don't know why your mother said that."

Jim wasn't sure if he should thank Liam or not, as they seemed to have gone from the frying pan, to the fire, to an even bigger fire. He worked his tongue around his mouth with a grimace, to see if any teeth were loose. "So what the fuck are we going to do now? My mother's inn burned down, the city thinks we did it, and we'll be lucky to talk our way off a lynching. Even if your bloody friends don't turn up again, we'll just – "

"They're not my friends." Liam's voice was grimmer than ever. "And in fact, I feel more than certain that we will soon be seeing them again."

* * *

It did not take Killian long – indeed, no more than a few seconds after opening his eyes – to realize that he was on a ship. He had spent too much time in the darkness below decks not to recognize it immediately, from the reek of tar, turpentine, brine, and the stale, shut-up feel of air that never saw the sun, damp and moldering. He was lying awkwardly on his side among tightly wedged casks, wrists tied behind him and false hand gone, head still ringing from the blow that must have sent him into his just-escaped state of oblivion. The roughness of barnacled boards rasped his cheek, he could hear the slop of water as more senses slowly returned, and while he had certainly had a too-cozy acquaintance with the floor at various points in his madcap youth, it was considerably distressing, for several reasons, to find himself forced back into intimate relations with it now. Not least due to the small fact that when he had last been compos mentis, he had been on dry land, at the Nolans' estate in Charlestown, still angry but nonetheless about to go inside and hash things out with Emma. He was right about what she had done, running off alone, but she was likewise right – as usual – about him, and that instantaneous aspiration to revenge and bloodshed. No matter how long Captain Hook had been locked in his trunk, he could still pop up at inopportune and unwelcome moments, and that had been one of them.

As a result, and perhaps only fittingly, what Captain Hook was presently locked in instead was the devil of a lot more alarming than a trunk. His ankles did not seem to be tied, so either they had run out of time to properly effect his capture, or they figured that knocked stoutly over the head and hands bound was good enough to contain a gentleman of seasoned years, even a former pirate. Killian experienced a moment of intense rage at the presumption of these whippersnappers, before realizing that he had just used (or at least thought) the word "whippersnappers" in earnest, and would thus entirely deserve it if he had fallen and could not get up. This was just bloody embarrassing.

And yet, newfound sympathy with Flint's disdain for masquerading as a geriatric or not, his wits would have to step up if the rest of him was slacking on the job. The fact that they had not killed Killian outright (and who the bloody hell were "they?") and instead thrown him into the hold of a ship suggested that this had been some sort of carefully planned operation, and that he was worth more alive than dead. But the knock on his head (and doubtless, he thought blackly, general age-related forgetfulness) was making it difficult to recall any more of who might have ambushed him, or why. They had certainly made a very neat job of it. Managed to get into the Nolan estate without raising any alarm, caught Killian from behind in the dark as he never saw them or had any chance to defend himself, and incapacitated him long enough to transport him all the way aboard their getaway vessel and whatever unknown distance out to sea. Jesus, Emma must be worried sick. Unless their following move had been to storm the house and take her, Flint, and Miranda as well, along with David, Mary Margaret, and anyone else who –

At that thought, Killian began to struggle against his bonds in good earnest, twisting and grunting and swearing until he finally got his arms awkwardly wrenched over his head, found a jagged end of a beam, and rasped at the rope, back screaming, until it finally parted with a snap. He pulled off the coils and straightened up slowly, breathing hard. Being free was a promising first step, but there were probably a good deal more of them than there were of him. He would have to think this through.

Killian climbed cautiously through the barrels to the ladder, where he could just make out voices from overhead. They sounded English, not Spanish or otherwise, which increased his lurking suspicion that this had been an inside job, and when he distinctly heard the words "Lord Murray," his heart skipped a beat. Bloody hell. That was what they all got for being so merciful and forbearing and insisting that the man could not possibly be as bad as his infamous uncle. The wee bastard – unless Killian was imagining things, which he did not believe in when it came to the Gold family and their vigorous exercise of boundless annoyance – had had Killian assaulted, kidnapped, and removed to his present quandary here on his way to who-knew-bloody-where, and nobody was likely to be any the wiser. Emma must be looking for him – there was no sign of other prisoners in the hold, so for better or worse, they must have taken him alone – but if she just thought he'd up and stormed off after their fight –

Deciding that the urgency of acquiring answers was worth risking his neck, Killian started up the ladder, as a sudden hush fell in the conversation. They were afforded further leisure to contemplate their inadequacy in life when he emerged into the middle of the crew's hammocks, there was a general roll and scuffle as they dove for weapons, and Killian abruptly found himself on the business end of a dozen pistols. "Hey, lads," he remarked, holding up his hand and stump – which might have been a mistake, as it immediately brought to their attention that he was untied. "Easy."

"Get back, pirate." The nearest one – they all in fact seemed offensively young, fifteen or sixteen, though many sailors were – jabbed at him with a musket. "Or we'll – "

"Pirate?" Killian arched both eyebrows. "Well then. I've not been called that in years. What's got you all in a lather for it now?"

"We know that's what you are. Aren't you." Richard the Lionheart here administered another jab with the musket. _"Hook."_

"First, stop poking me with that, you fat-headed pup, unless you want a personal demonstration of why it's stupid to use a musket on a ship. Second, was it Lord Murray you kidnapped me for? Be interested to hear just what he thinks I've done."

"None of your concern, pirate. Go below and don't make no trouble, and this doesn't have to be unpleasant. Otherwise I promise, you won't – "

Killian had heard enough. These lot were utter idiots, and he wanted to get back to his wife. " _Do_ you know why it's stupid to use a musket on a ship?"

Caught momentarily off guard, the lad blinked. "Wh – "

"Because." Killian bared his teeth in an amiable snarl. "The pirate you did a really shit job of snatching will wake up, come to find you, and – " Fast as a snake, he reached out, grabbed hold of the muzzle, and wrenched it out of the boy's hand, cracking the butt-end viciously over the little bastard's head hard enough to crack the stock. "Do that."

There was a brief, complete, almost impressed silence as the others regarded their dropped compatriot in considerable surprise. Unfortunately, however, they recovered quickly from the shock. They lunged at Killian as he swung the musket like a quarterstaff, managing to catch another in the gut, and a third tripped over a coil of rope. Killian ducked as a shot went off just over his head, ran for the ladder to the main deck, and encountered substantial difficulty in climbing and holding onto the gun at the same time. He had to awkwardly tuck it under his arm, nearly lost his balance, kicked out at the hands trying to grab him, and tumbled onto deck. If they were still in the harbor or even just anywhere close, he could jump overboard and swim for it. They'd doubtless shoot at him, but it was dark and in the water, they were less likely to inflict lasting damage. He sprinted to the railing, prepared to dive, and –

No sign of land. Nothing to indicate where they were or where they were bound, or how long since they had left Charlestown. Nothing but black water, and enough wind against his face to know, even without seeing, that all the sails were up and they were well underway. He _could_ still jump, but it was as likely to end him up sucked under the keel, eaten by a shark, or just plucked straightaway out again in dripping indignity. What the bloody, _bloody_ hell was this –

As he hesitated a split second too long, a blow crashed into the back of his head so hard that he saw white sparks, and he staggered forward, almost going over the rail anyway. The crew had, most unfortunately, caught up with him, and dragged him by the legs across the boards as he still fought to break free, getting nowhere, until another shadow fell over him. This one was a young man in a stylish coat that had once been black velvet, but was slashed and patched with red silk so as to render the garment striped, and hair that had been coiffed with bacon grease into the distinctive style that gave the Mohawk Indians their name. It looked incredibly stupid, in Killian's opinion, and he was about to express said opinion, but one of Mohawk's associated miscreants rabbit-punched him in the kidney, and he was briefly rendered unable to do so. When his spinning vision cleared, he snarled, "Who the _fuck_ are you?"

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, pirate." Mohawk paced nearer, evidently threateningly. He looked a bit like a Chinaman, though in this dim light, Killian could not be certain. "You know what we do to pirates?"

"Blind them with your appalling fashion choices?"

That got him a kick. "Try again."

"Ineptly assault them with your halfwit gang of juvenile delinquents?"

That got him several kicks, from all sides, as Mohawk grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head up. "My name's Rufio. _Captain_ Rufio. This is my ship, the _Pan,_ and you're my prisoner."

"Lord Murray sold me to the local home for troubled youths?" Killian spat out a bit of blood and regarded his teenage captors balefully. "If you were old enough to shave, I might take you seriously, but as it is – "

"You want a little moonlight swim, _Hook?"_

That, at least, he had decided he did not, and noxious as this bunch were, there were plenty enough of them to put him overboard. He didn't think they would, at least yet, but still. Instead of answering, he glared at them.

"Tie him up. Make sure he doesn't escape this time. Hands _and_ feet." Rufio jerked his head at his pubescent henchmen. "If he didn't appreciate our hospitality before, I'd say he can appreciate it less. Take him below, boys. And don't feed him until I say."

And with that, and Killian utterly certain that this was the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him in a life that had sadly not lacked them, they did.

* * *

It was six or seven hours out of Bermuda, and thus far, just as Geneva had wagered, the only trouble they had encountered were a few spits of rain, a bit of churn on the waves, and a stray gust of wind or two that sent odds and ends cartwheeling across the deck. But the _Rose_ was stout – she kept the old girl well chinked and careened – and once she had her crew reef the topgallants and keep a careful eye on the rest of the canvas, they were even still making progress, if somewhat more slowly. Geneva herself had been on the wheel for the last few hours, relieving her helmsman, and her greatest current inconvenience was the fact that her thick dark hair had blown loose from its stylish twist, pasting in her eyes and against her sun-freckled cheeks, while she did not have enough hands to tie it back again. She was more interested in finding how it felt, a storm in deep water, just her and the ocean testing each other that bit more with each round. It was hard work. Despite the chill when the wind blew, sweat was dripping into her stays, and her arms and shoulders ached something fierce, but she paid no attention. She could do this.

The clouds _were_ getting darker, however, and not only because it was getting on to sundown. They were in for a bouncy night, but Geneva had forewarned everyone of that already, and they could probably tell by looking anyway. She kept at it, matching the weather's considerable stubbornness with her own, until the hatch opened and her great-uncle climbed out, wearing an oilskin and obliged to use the storm lines strung up along the rails to keep his balance. "My dear, it's getting a bit foul!" he shouted. "Mr. Arrow said he'll take over, come below!"

"In a minute!" Geneva yelled back. Her first mate, Phineas Arrow, was a solid sailor and had served as her mentor as well as her parents and grandfather, but he was past fifty, and it was easier for her, at twenty-four, to take a beating. "Be careful, Uncle Thomas, the waves are nearly over the gunwales!"

Thomas, who had just been knocked hard by one, gave her a look. "I assure you, I have noticed. Not to second guess your decision, but this _is_ a bit worse than you reckoned."

"Only a bit." It was true, however, that she should tie herself to the wheel if she was staying out here much longer. A man (or woman) who went overboard in these conditions was almost impossible to recover. Geneva started to say something else, was interrupted as a solid-white sheet of spray scalped off the next wave and soaked both of them, and finally decided that discretion might be the better part of valor. "Fine, fetch Mr. Arrow, but warn him it's exciting up here, and – "

At that moment, she was interrupted as the bottom of the world went out from under them. The _Rose's_ prow pointed down the side of a vast green mountain, and the twenty-gun sixth-rater went sledding like a child on a toboggan in winter. That sort of sledding, however, was supposed to be fun, and this – well, this was not fun at all, even for someone of Geneva's adventuresome sensibilities. Furthermore, the crest of the wave was still rising behind them, and their sails snapped and went oddly slack as the wind was cut off. There was an instant in which the entire world was silent, and then it hit.

Pummeling, shrieking, rushing blackness engulfed Geneva to every side, ripping at her, tumbling and tossing her, until for a terrifying instant she felt herself lose contact with the _Rose_ altogether and hang unsupported, untouched, in the utter heart of the abyss, completely dependent on the sea's whims to either drop her back on the ship, or drag her down to its depths. She kicked and clawed, lungs straining, and then out of nowhere was thoroughly winded, gulping and retching, as mercifully but unfortunately solid deck boards punched her in the chest. She flailed out, got hold of a rope, felt it burn against her palms as it was ripped away, and struggled to swipe away enough stinging salt to see. _Thomas, where's Thomas, where's Thomas?_ Oh God, if he –

The _Rose_ rode up another wave, down the just as terrifying far side, through it managed to avoid being completely inundated this time, and Geneva staggered to her feet. "Thomas! Uncle Thomas! _Uncle Thomas!"_

She heard a faint answering yell, sprinted to the side, looked down, and felt her heart stop as she beheld Thomas, clinging to the starboard strakes like a barnacle and struggling to get a grip on the soaked tangle of the shrouds. It was not at all a secure position – one even middling-size wave could knock him off with a direct hit, and to say the least, more-than-middling-size waves were too bloody plentiful at the moment. Geneva grabbed a rope and threw it to him, which Thomas managed to get hold of, and had almost finished tying it around his waist when he vanished in a torrent of whitewater. Geneva briefly and horrifyingly felt the rope go slack, sobbed in utter terror, and then saw him reappear – tied in, but having lost his grip on the ship entirely, bouncing and dragging along like a runaway kite on the end of a string. He was in just as much danger of being sucked under the keel and torn to shreds as he was from the storm, and she was hauling, heaving with all her strength, palms bleeding and the wounds burning with salt, but it wasn't enough, she couldn't, it wasn't going to –

At that moment, another set of arms seized Geneva from behind, awkwardly balanced on the sliding deck, but she was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. She and the second man pulled like Hercules, and with their combined effort, Thomas was able to somersault back onto deck, winded and wheezing, blood running down his face where he had banged headfirst into the timbers. Geneva wanted to fling herself to her knees and hug him, but they were not out of the woods yet. Instead she helped him frantically to his feet, satisfied herself that he was more or less intact, and turned. "Thank you, Mr. Arrow, that was a very timely – "

"You're welcome." John Silver gave her a half-smile, holding tightly to the capstan as his false leg slipped and skated under him. "Maybe a bit more careful next time, then? And how about we get the fuck below before next time happens?"

"I – " Geneva shut her mouth hard enough to hear her teeth click. "Mr. Silver, I didn't – "

"I'd prefer it if Flint's granddaughter and his. . . Thomas did not die on my watch. As well the fact that you _are_ the captain of this vessel, so – "

Silver had been yelling over the tumult, but at that moment, everything flattened out and quieted down, nearly that quickly. The _Rose_ landed with a jerk on unnaturally calm water, even as the sea raged and thundered not far behind them, and a hazy, distant halo of rain surrounded them to all sides, a break in the furious anvils of clouds revealing a veiled moon and massive, jagged forks of lightning plunging from sky to sea in the near distance. It was as if they had abruptly stumbled into the one part of the storm that had been switched off, and Geneva, even without the mercury, could feel the pressure drop fast enough to make her ears pop. "What are we – look, we're clear of it, we can – "

"We're not clear," Silver said. "We're in the eye."

"We're in the wh – ?"

"The eye. The central point around which the body of the hurricane spins." Silver whirled, pulled out his spyglass, and hastily tried to judge the distance of the far side. "It's the worst right in the bands nearest to it, which means we'll hit the screaming wife of what we just went through in about, oh, half a bell. It's not bloody safe for anyone to be up here, I warned you we couldn't – "

"Later!" He was right, damn it, but Geneva could not spare any leisure for the realization. She ordered Thomas belowdecks at once, where he went after a worried look at her, and she, Silver, a few of her men, and Mr. Arrow desperately tried to ready the _Rose_ for her rapidly approaching next round of punishment. There was not much that could be done, aside from double-knotting everything, making sure the cargo and guns were firmly stowed, and there were no major leaks – though even if there had been, there wasn't much to fix them with apart from spit, sawdust, and prayer. They got all the sails tied – Silver could not climb rigging, so he confined himself to management of the deck – and Geneva could hear the unearthly scream of the storm rising again as they were shoved inexorably toward the far side of the eyewall. The _Rose_ spun like a bottle from stem to stern, pointed almost backward into the maelstrom, and Geneva thought briefly of how her godfather had died, a story nobody in her family could bear to tell much. Wrecked in one of the worst storms Cape Cod had ever seen, the _Whydah_ driven up on the cliffs of Eastham and broken apart with the loss of all her treasure, her captain, and her men. Of a hundred and fifty souls who served under Black Sam Bellamy's flag, only two had survived.

 _No. No, this is not ending the same, I forbid it._ At least, she could be sure of that since in this case there were no cliffs, but Geneva forced that particular morbid thought aside. She and Mr. Arrow splashed across the deck to the wheel and tied themselves in, hauling the _Rose_ the right way again, pitching and yawing as the distance closed to only a few hundred yards. All the lanterns were out, having been doused in the last go-round, and the approaching wall of darkness felt like the gates of hell themselves, the _Rose_ screaming and straining as her timbers were punished by the fury. _Oh,_ Geneva thought. _Oh, this is a storm at sea._

The next instant, the eyewall hit like the breaking of the world. They were pointed almost straight up, and then straight down, and then slewed around, taking the attack of the raging waves broadside, as the lifeline tied around her waist snapped like a carriage whip but held, if barely. Geneva's face smashed into the helm-housing, she was suspended upside down, and then crashed down atop it. The impact was brutal enough that she momentarily thought she had broken her back – her entire body would be covered in bruises when this was over, if it was over. She had lost sight of Silver, hoped he had been wise enough to get below before this hit – and then, as the next wave negligently flicked them off it, she saw Mr. Arrow pulled bodily across the deck, catch against the railing, and then, with a horrible sound, be crumpled like a bit of wet paper. The rope snapped, and the next instant he was not there.

"No!" Geneva was not sure if she thought it or said it or both, just that it was the only word that existed anywhere. She crawled madly on all fours across the deck, torn hands screaming, cracked ribs aching, staring into the water, waiting for his head to break the surface, for him to come back up. It hurt like the son of a bitch to scream, but she did anyway. "Phineas! PHINEAS!"

Nothing.

Geneva spat out a mouthful of salt, and had a brief and suicidal impulse to dive in after him. But it was too late anyway, they were ten or twenty or thirty feet past the place where he had fallen, and she could see nothing living in the waves. Only the heaving, howling hinterland to every side, the sleeping giant awoken and screaming, capriciously crushing the insects that crawled over it, Brobdinag and Lilliput from that novel by Mr. Swift, the one she had gotten her grandparents as a present. _"MR. ARROW!"_

Nothing.

He was gone.

Geneva felt as if all the bones in her body had turned to butter, sinking against the helm, as she barely heard the storm continuing to vent its fury. It lessened only slowly, in miserly increments, until it finally passed over close to dawn, the _Rose_ spun heavily battered but still afloat into calm water, and Geneva was too terrified to move, lest this was another eye and they were in for a third repeat of the ordeal. She was coughing, sore, sodden to the bone, freezing, bruised, and bleeding, and her hands were too slashed and raw to unpick the knots of rope still holding her to the wheel. So she just sat there, shaking without a sound.

A few minutes later, the hatch banged open again, and Thomas, Silver close on his heels, bolted out, racing across the deck to her. "Jenny! Bloody hell, Jenny, are you – are you – "

" 'm fine." Geneva gave him a weak smile, despite having never felt less fine in her life. Thomas threw himself down and tried to undo the knots, but likewise could not budge them until Silver pulled out his knife and sawed through the wet rope. Her teeth were chattering so hard her jaw cracked, but she still tried to push away Thomas' arms. "Uncle Thomas, 'm fine, I – "

She took a step, just about collapsed, and he caught her, hoisting her awkwardly across his chest and making his way to the cabin, where Madi was trying to pick up the things that had been thrown everywhere. Upon sight of Geneva, however, she instantly abandoned her efforts, took her from Thomas, and helped her to the bed – which, if damp and disheveled, was at least horizontal. Then she arched a cool eyebrow at Silver, hovering by the door. "Did you also need something, then?"

"I just – thought I'd look in and see if you were – "

"If you came to gloat, neither of us wish to hear it." Madi shook out the quilt and draped it over the shivering Geneva. "You were right. You usually are, John, but that does not mean it is in a way in which you should take any pride."

Silver flinched. "Christ, I didn't come to gloat! I wanted to see if you were all right!"

"I am fine." Madi's long dreadlocks fell forward, hiding her face, but something about her voice made Geneva think that it was somehow as much a lie as when she had said it. "I will look after her now. You may go."

Still Silver hesitated, looking at his ex-wife with desperate, unguarded yearning. Then Thomas stepped up, put a hand on his arm – gently – and showed him out, the door creaking shut behind them. After the madness of the storm, the stillness rang unbearably in Geneva's head, buzzing like a nest of hornets.

Madi helped her out of her wet clothes, dried and warmed her, and brought her some broth, and Geneva dozed fitfully, on and off, hearing voices outside as the men tried to whip the _Rose_ back into shape. Surely they must realize that Mr. Arrow was gone, that it was her decision that was to blame, that she had wanted to prove to all of them that she could handle an Atlantic storm and Silver alike, and failed decisively at both. She was cold, she was cold, she was cold, cold, _cold._ She wanted to be home in Savannah, drinking tea on the veranda, talking about books with Granny, about sailing with Grandpa and Daddy. She wanted to see Mother, she even wanted to see her git of a little brother. Adventure was all well and good, but at least presently, she had had more than enough of it. She had killed Mr. Arrow, she had nearly killed Thomas as well, and it was only luck that she had not. God. She would never have been able to face her family again.

At some point Madi stepped out, and when Geneva heard the door open again, she assumed it was her returning. She cracked an eye, about to say that she should get up and face the crew, even if it was the last thing she felt like doing – then stopped, going tense. "What do you want?"

Silver held out both hands, making no move to come any closer. "I'm sorry about your first mate."

The air seemed to run out of Geneva's lungs. She wanted to say something sharp, but she just stared at the white-painted boards of the rocking ceiling. At last she said, "I killed him."

"The storm killed him." Silver perched in the chair, keeping an eye on the door, as if knowing that Madi would not be pleased to come back and find him here. "You didn't – "

"I gave the order to sail into the storm. That's my fault. I know it is. Is that why you came? To remind me?"

"No." Silver's voice was quiet. "I said that I've been through my share of storms. One of them, aboard the _Walrus,_ I was belowdecks with one of the men, a friend of mine. We were trying to patch a leak. A cannon shifted, pinning him to the hull, and I could not move it. The water rose higher and higher, while all I could do was try desperately to keep his head above it. My efforts did not make any difference. He drowned before me as I watched, utterly powerless to stop it. I have not forgotten that. I know you likewise will not with Mr. Arrow. I'm sorry."

Geneva was once more at a loss for words. She sensed, as she had before, that Silver was genuinely trying to connect with her, but she did not want his calculated empathy, not when this entire affair was of his purpose and devising. Yet she did not want to order him out either, if only because that would mean being left alone with her thoughts. At last she said only, "Why?"

"As I said. You are Flint's granddaughter. And he was also often in the habit of spurning what I said, merely because I was the one who had said it." Silver regarded her steadily. "As I also said, it would be much easier for us to be friends. To work together. When Flint and I finally did, we were all but unstoppable."

"I'm not your second chance with him."

Silver flinched again, ever so slightly, but his tone remained courteous. "Of course not. But there are similarities. If you did work with me – "

"What did you do to him on Skeleton Island?"

"I – beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. You want us to be allies, because I think you want to make up for whatever you did to Grandpa on Skeleton Island, what passed between the two of you, why you and Mother left him behind and she thought for years that he was likely dead. If you want me to trust you – and remotely believe that I would not come to the same end if it suited – then tell me. Or go."

Silver looked truly flummoxed. He opened his mouth, then shut it. "Geneva – "

She wanted to remind him that it was _Captain Jones,_ but that took too much effort. "Well?"

Silver opened his mouth a second time, then likewise shut it. "I think I see Madi returning," he said at last. "I'll spare you another of our squabbles. If there is anything else I can do for you, please do let me know."

And with that, he went.


	7. VII

"Well," Jack said, after a long moment. "Someone else bought the collection, so if there was the map you needed in there, we don't know. Splendid. Who the devil is _B. Bones,_ anyway?"

"He's dead." Sam frowned. "So far as I know, at least. He and Grandpa didn't, uh, didn't like each other."

"A number of people don't seem to like your grandfather. Can't reckon why."

Sam decided to ignore that. "It could be another bloke with the same name, which I admit doesn't help us very much, but it could at least mean that the other one is still dead. It is strange, though, and since we've established that Hamilton probably isn't going to help us, we, er, we could. . . we could. . ."

Jack turned to look at him with an utterly exasperated expression. "You have absolutely no idea what to do next, do you?"

"That's not true, I do too." Sam straightened up to his full height, which wasn't bad – almost six feet, if not matching Jack, who had that and then some. It was irksome, really, going head to head with someone who could always effortlessly out-loom you. "We. . . just have to find the inventory registers. There was probably a more detailed listing of the collection. So if we know the map _was_ here, we can decide if it's worth chasing up wherever Bones footled off with it, which may be a long way, yes, but – "

"Let me ask you something." Jack folded his arms and regarded Sam still more narrowly. "If you know approximately where the island is, why do we need a map at all?"

"I, ah." Sam leaned on the alley wall, trying to look calm and collected, but one of the stones slid loose and made him whack his elbow. Naturally. "Everyone needs a refresher now and then, don't they?"

Jack's expression turned, if possible, still more dubious.

"I do, all right? I do know where it is. About. I just don't know the exact coordinates, I don't think anyone does. Not even Grandpa or Mum or any of them. It's a tiny island, we could be sailing in circles forever trying to find it, and as you may recall, we don't have that long. I'm asking for help instead of trying to be an arrogant prick who thinks he can do it entirely by himself, because as is probably bloody obvious, I can't. So yes, I wanted to see if by some mad fluke of luck, the man here had a chart. Bite me."

Jack, in that irritating habit of his, arched a dark eyebrow to nearly the full potential of his forehead. Almost pityingly, he said, "This is a disaster."

"Fine then, Isaac Newton, let's hear your ideas!"

"Not my responsibility, remember? I wasn't the one strolling in and claiming to the Governor of Cuba that I could find the biggest pile of riches in the – "

"No, you were just the one handing over the intelligence about Cartagena like a no-good sneak – what'd you do, torture it out of the English prisoners yourself – "

"I had nothing to do with that. But yes, I took it because you're not the only bloody person in the world who has someone they want to protect, and your spectacular incompetence is making that more difficult than I can – "

"Yes, I know I'm the disappointment, for my family too, so it's sad that you – "

They were raising their voices, stalking toward each other with heated expressions and fists at the ready, but then – since it was still early, and likely in the name of doing their civic duty in breaking up a brawl between two blackguards in the alley, a wooden shutter banged open above them and a servant poured a bucket of used washwater directly on their heads (at least it was not a chamber pot, or that would have been simply unspeakable). Both young men snorted and spluttered, whirled around and glared evilly up at the servant, who yelled something uncouth-sounding and slammed the shutter, then back on each other, endeavoring valiantly to proceed as if there had been no affront to their dignity. Finally Jack muttered a curse of his own under his breath, scraped his long black hair out of his eyes, and redid the thong holding it back. Sam had been about to do the same thing, but instead he stood there mulishly dripping so it didn't look as if he was copying. He still did want to have a go at punching Jack, but he also knew that Jack would wax the floor with him, and it would be counterproductive to inflame the closest thing to an ally (not that that was very close at all) further against him. Da Souza would definitely kill him if they could get to Skeleton Island without him. Jack only might.

After a moment, Jack glanced back at him, as Sam was surreptitiously trying to fix his own ponytail. "Why are you out here alone, anyway? What are you, fifteen?"

"I'm nineteen, you git."

Jack raised the other eyebrow, but thankfully forbore to comment. "Well," he said. "You said you knew roughly where Skeleton Island is. So, where?"

"Why do I have to tell you?"

"Maybe so I think I have any reason to stick around with you, rather than going off and finding it myself. I'm starting to think that would be faster."

Sam hesitated. As he had already noted, there was no way he could do this himself, and he needed Jack to stay – if nothing else, to vouch for him to the Spaniards, though that was looking like an increasingly fool idea. "It's east of Nassau," he said. "In the Atlantic. No more than about two days' hard sail, since Grandpa and Mum were able to reach it in about that amount of time. So I suppose we could just wander around in the general vicinity, but even if we stumbled on it, we'd still need to recover the treasure, and I don't think we can do that with just the _S_."

"The what?"

"The _S._ Da Souza's ship."

"The _Senaita?"_

"Yes, that."

"Did you forget that too?"

"I did not. I just won't say it if it's a crude word for lady parts. I don't believe in disrespecting women like that."

Caught off guard, Jack stared at him – then broke out into the first actual smile that Sam had ever seen from him. It completely transformed his face, usually so wary and dark and guarded, into something that shone like a tower beacon, bright and beautiful. He shut it off at once, though not before it had time to do something peculiar to Sam's insides, and shook his head. "At least you'll have good manners while you're making a dog's breakfast of this. I'm sure your mum's very proud."

"Mum, and Granny, and my sister. Dad and Grandpa too. I'd have my hide tanned if I was ever that foul, and I'd deserve it."

"Charlotte would like you." Jack looked as if he wanted to bite his tongue for having said it. "We should go."

"Go where? Who's Charlotte?"

"She's my – never mind. It's complicated."

"I think I can handle complicated."

"Never mind, I said. If we're not standing here arguing in an alley, and if you don't have the chart, either you have somewhere else we should look or we should be on our way. If Da Souza is back yet, that is. Either way, if you don't have anything else useful to offer – "

"I suppose we can go, yes." Sam strove to sound offhand. As they started to walk, he added, "Is Charlotte your sister?"

"No."

"Why would she like me?"

"Why on bloody earth is that any of your business?"

"Maybe I'm just curious about you. You know an unavoidable lot about me and my family, but I don't know anything about you or yours. You said you are protecting someone too. Who's Charlotte then, your gerbil?"

"You're very obnoxious."

"Why's it obnoxious to make friendly conversation?"

"We're not friends, and you're an idiot. Just because you toddle around telling your life story to all and sundry doesn't mean that I'm obliged to do the same, especially when it's what has you presently bent over a barrel. You want some advice, stop expecting the world to be some kind and happy place where everyone secretly just longs to hold hands and drink tea. It will fuck you squarely up the arse if you do."

Sam opened and shut his mouth, feeling slapped, as seemed to be his general state of being when conversing, or rather attempting to, with Jack Bellamy. Finally he said, "I'm not so naïve as you think I am. I know I'm in trouble and that bloody nobody means me well. But there's a difference between that and – whatever you imagine I am, I'm not sure."

"I have my reasons." Jack did not break stride. "You just – need a few more walls. You give too much of yourself away to everyone, no matter what. You let them see straight into you, everything you want, and let them tell you what to do to get it. You'll never survive this unless you learn how to tell a decent lie."

"And I suppose you think you could teach me?"

"I don't intend to teach you anything. As I said. This isn't my responsibility, and neither are you."

"So who is? Charlotte?"

"Yes," Jack said, very shortly. "Her and the girls."

Sam was conscious of a faint, uncomfortable prickling sensation in his chest. "Your daughters?"

"No."

"Stepdaughters?"

"No. No more questions."

"Right. Walls. Be mysterious and also a total knob, suit yourself. For the record, I'm not asking in the service of some nefarious scheme. We both also know that between us, you're – well, you're you, and I'm me. I want to help my family, you want to help yours. Don't you think that we should at least – "

"I don't want to know about your family." Jack's voice was quiet and very fierce. "So don't expect me to tell you about mine."

"Why not?" Sam exploded, coming to a smart halt in the middle of the street. "Because it's easier to hold a grudge against us, for whatever wrong you think we've done you, if you don't know us as people, but whatever abstractions you can craft to suit yourself? Your uncle was my godfather, I know you probably think he was a filthy pirate, but maybe it's more than just that. I never knew him, but I wish I did – it's his name I have to carry on every day, and at least if I had some of my own memories, I wouldn't have to see everything through old stories told by other people! I'd give everything to know the truth of a man, _this_ man, so if you aren't willing to do the same, you can call me the incompetent one all you like, but you're the real coward."

Jack stared at him again, completely floored. He raised a hand to his face, then dropped it. "Bloody hell," he said at last. "You are nineteen, aye."

"Don't patronize me, you twit." Sam was not mollified. "You're the same age as my sister – twenty-three, twenty-four? And frankly, no matter what you think of yourself, she'd kick your arse. So don't act as if you have the secrets of the world figured out, because I'm guessing that deep down, you're just as scared as I am. I never said I was a perfect person, I've never pretended to be anything I'm not. I know too well what a lie that is."

"Sam." It was the first time he could recall that Jack had used his name, and it caught him short. "Just take a breath, why don't you?"

Sam snapped his mouth shut with a click. As it was, he really had not meant to be _quite_ that forthcoming, but he had finally put his finger on what bothered him so much about his apparent complete inability to make any headway with Jack. _Sam_ was the name of a ghost that his entire family had loved, and Sam himself was just. . . him. Not nearly, in his mind, whatever they thought he would be, perpetually falling short of the honor. Jack Bellamy was the incarnation of what Sam had always feared his elder namesake would be, if he ever actually met him: more than free with his opinion that Sam was an incurable numbskull far more suited for a career selling flowers or heckling men on soapboxes than anything resembling what the rest of his family did. It was stupid, it was irrational, but Sam had found that such things rarely made a difference when your head was busily convincing you that you were the worst human alive. He compensated for this insecurity by getting people to like him, to have tangible proof to the contrary, and that was exactly why his hereunto failure to do so with Jack was throwing him so much. If he could not get this person of all people to like him, perhaps all the whispering doubts were right. He did not deserve to be Sam, and never had.

They continued to stare at each other for a moment more. Sam almost wished that Jack would go ahead and actually punch him, just to get it over with, and that at least was no more than he either expected or merited. He tried to brace himself, though he was shamefully afraid that he would cry if Jack did, and that would surely destroy whatever tattered bit of tolerance the other young man could ever be persuaded to hold for him. But instead Jack sighed. "Come on," he said. "I'd rather not draw too much attention."

As clocking him in the nose on a public thoroughfare would certainly count under that heading, Sam supposed that the punching had, at least for now, been postponed. After a pause, he started to trot after Jack again, unable to repress a demented vision of what might happen if he turned up at home at some point in his theoretically still-alive future and announced that he had Sam Bellamy's nephew in tow. His sister had brought a few gentleman friends home before, which generally turned excruciating as Grandpa and Dad interrogated them over supper, and which then resulted in the gentlemen friends never being heard from again, much to Geneva's irritation. This was different, as Jack was obviously not a gentleman friend (and possibly neither a gentleman nor a friend), and the fact of his kinship to Captain Bellamy might throw even Grandpa for a loop, but Sam supposed it would go terribly anyway. Though Jack and Geneva would probably like each other. They had a lot in common. _It would bloody figure._

They descended the city streets back toward their boat in what Sam would very much hesitate to term an amiable silence, as it wasn't amiable so much as it was a brief lull in their thus far ever-present need to get the last word on each other. At the quay, they climbed in, slid the oars into the locks, and started to row. They would likely have a while to wait on the ship, as Da Souza was off accomplishing villainy somewhere, and Sam felt another prickle in his chest, this one of something close to anger, at the thought of just sitting on their hands and letting him do it. Whatever could happen to these people, it was because he had brought the wolf here. _Maybe we can steal the_ S, _and give it a better name while we're at it._

It was going on midday by the time they made it back to the Narrows and the Portuguese vessel's concealed position among the wooded bluffs of St. Kitts. It was clear and hot and blue, the distant green mountains of Nevis ringed in puffy white clouds; one of them, the tallest, was rumored to be a volcano, though it had never erupted any time in living memory. Since it was the only place on the island impossible to farm, it was where any Maroons hiding from the inexorable maw of the sugarcane plantations would have fled, and Sam felt another stab of anger over all the slave ships in the harbor, not that he thought two men could do anything about those. Maybe the people deserved whatever Da Souza might do to them after all. Maybe they didn't. It was all so bloody confusing.

They had the ship all to themselves except for a few crewmen who had been left behind (in theory to keep watch, in reality to snore in their hammocks) and Sam sat in the prow, squinting against the glare off the water and trying to think what to say to Da Souza when the bastard asked for a progress report. They had, after all, acquired no chart as a result of their detour here, and he had a feeling that the captain would take less than kindly to a vague directive to set sail in a thataway direction. Sam could possibly spin this trip as an accomplishment somehow, but he would need Jack's collaboration to do it. Otherwise, Jack could just pipe up and blow a hole in the entire flimsy fable, and then, well. . .

Having failed to think of anything else over several hours of cogitation, Sam finally sighed deeply, got up, and went to find Jack, who had taken up a spot in the stern and appeared to likewise be in deep thought – it was better not to ask over what. "Hey," he said, low-voiced. "So before Da Souza gets back, the hell are we going to tell him?"

"The truth, I thought." Jack's eyes were mostly brown, but they had a lighter hazel-gold rim around the edge that gave Sam the unpleasant sensation of staring down a jungle cat. "As you assured me earlier, you know about where the place is. Don't you."

"I. . ." Sam chewed his lip. "I just think it's better if he's under as many impressions as possible about how valuable I am."

This was as close as even he dared to come to admitting that he wasn't, and by the way Jack's lip twisted, Sam had a furtherly unpleasant feeling that he had already guessed. Jack leaned back, hands clasped over a knee. Then he said, "We did find out that someone named B. Bones bought the charts. Could see if that rings any bells. Does sound familiar, outside of whatever feud you said he had with your grandfather, but I can't think why."

"That could have been because he – " Sam stopped. "Oh, shit."

"What?"

"I just thought. Billy Bones – he was my mother's friend, he served on the _Walrus,_ but he and Grandpa ended up increasingly at odds, as I said. Billy was the one who sold them out to the Navy, in exchange for a chance at revenge. Woodes Rogers followed them to Skeleton Island on Billy's information, and Billy and Grandpa fought there. Everyone thought he'd died there. But if he didn't, if he's also still alive – "

Jack's eyes widened as he caught Sam's drift. "Then he also knows where it is. And if he's buying charts from the same place we wanted to, may also be presently trying to get back there. There's no way he's still hanging around Nevis, though. That was weeks ago, or longer."

"Aye." Sam considered. "There's an outside chance that he passed through Nassau at some point, as he used to live there during the pirates' republic, but if he _was_ treasure hunting I doubt he'd want word getting out about it. We could go there and ask. Da Souza would probably fit right in. Though now that it's an English colony again, he'd have to avoid tipping off who he works for. Not that he cares."

"Nassau." Jack's mouth went thin. "That's where you'd send us?"

"What, the dread pirate haunt? Whatever you're imagining, it's not like that, these days. My uncle Charlie works there. And besides, Skeleton Island is _somewhere_ near it, remember? At least we'd be in the neighborhood."

This was true enough that Jack could not mount an objection, though he still looked anything but keen on the idea. When he still didn't answer, Sam challenged, "Scared to see where your family comes from?"

Jack gave him a searing look. "My family comes from Devonshire. Wherever my uncle gallivanted off to, it doesn't change that."

"You hate England, you've said it at least twenty times. So why does it matter?"

Jack made a convulsive movement as if to stand up, and Sam flinched, but he caught himself, offered a rather teeth-bared smile, and sat down. "You'd have more friends, and be generally better at this whole thing, if you had any idea whatsoever when to shut the fuck up."

"We've already established that I don't." Sam was not – in this, at least – backing down. "Will you support me when I tell Da Souza to go to Nassau, or not?"

Jack kept looking at him. The afternoon sunlight turned his eyes to chips of amber, sharp and glittering. At last he said, "Very well."

Sam held out his hand, as if expecting them to shake on it, but Jack didn't take it. One corner of his mouth turned up again. "You'll be in more trouble there than I will, anyway."

This was most likely true, even if Sam bridled at it being pointed out. Half of him wanted to ask again about this mysterious Charlotte, even if he knew he'd just run into a brick wall, and the rest of him felt as if he had had more than enough of Jack Bellamy's company just now. He returned to his observation post on the bow and waited until the afternoon ended, dusk began to fall, and Da Souza and his men returned from their felony – they looked to be in a good mood, so it had clearly gone well. "Ah, Samuel," the captain said, spotting him. "What do you have to say for yourself, then?"

"Right." Sam cleared his throat. "We – " he eyed Jack pointedly, as if to reinforce that it was indeed a _we –_ "we've had a few ideas, yes."

With that, he filled Da Souza in (more or less) on their activities and conclusions for the day, making them sound considerably more promising than they actually were. "So," he finished, as stoutly as possible. "That's what it is. Nassau."

"Nassau." Da Souza considered that, tapping his grimy fingers on his arm. If it was from gunpowder, which it smelled like, Sam didn't particularly want to know. "Old friends of your grandfather's, then? Or old enemies?"

"Something like that. I don't know that Bones is actually there." Sam rather hoped not, since even if so, Billy almost certainly did not intend to peaceably ponder on pleasant days gone by. If they did cross paths, he would have to pray that Billy had some ancestral soft spot for Emma Swan's son. "He's our man, though. Catch up to him, and we're there in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

"I see." Da Souza considered again, then nodded. "You've done quite well, young Jones. I must say, I did not think you had it in you."

Backhanded as this compliment was, Sam nonetheless could not help taking some pride in it. Da Souza was clearly an experienced scurvy rascal and hell-raising bastard of the first order, so his endorsement, however grudging, was still rather satisfying. Indeed, the captain's manner toward him became almost friendly as they raised anchor, checked that they were unobserved, and prepared to set sail. Clearly there was no point in shilly-shallying, with Bones some unknown distance ahead of them, Jack's propensity for punching scriveners, and whatever Da Souza and his horrible friends had achieved on shore. It was a lengthy northwestern haul to Nassau from here, close to a thousand miles, and that meant at least another week in close quarters, including that of the ship's bloody dog. Sam still had not discerned the reason for the presence of this animal on the vessel, except for the sole fact that Da Souza seemed fond of it. Even hardened, double-dealing, throat-cutting rogues had pets, apparently.

The trades carried them swiftly through the Narrows and out into the open sea west of the islands, receding into dark shadows on the horizon behind them. Sam was feeling almost, however unwarrantedly, optimistic – this was more how things usually went for him, when he succeeded through sheer persistence and dumb luck, or some combination thereof. He wondered about the fortunes of Nathaniel, back in Havana. Hopefully he was doing all right, or at least was not bored out of his mind or hung up by his thumbs or otherwise maltreated by the bloody Spaniards. In fact, Sam thought that this was the longest they had gone without seeing each other since they first met, and it still felt odd to be undertaking an adventure without his partner in crime. Especially when said partner had been replaced by one who probably wanted to –

A tap on his shoulder startled him considerably, and he turned to see Jack, hair out of its ponytail and blowing freely, which gave him a look like the brooding hero of some _Novel_ doubtless unsuitable for consumption by impressionable young ladies (at least according to idiots, as Sam thought ladies should read whatever they pleased). Likewise, he seemed – at least for the moment – something less than in utter scorn and disbelief over Sam's entire existence, which was a refreshing change. "Ah," he said, and coughed. "Here, I brought you a bit of bread."

Sam was about to say that he wasn't hungry, but of course he was hungry, and he hadn't gone to supper because he didn't want Da Souza to try to pry more details out of him. So he nodded in thanks, took it, and devoured it in about one gulp, at which Jack looked arch. "Could be you won't starve if you take a breath, you think?"

"Eh," Sam said, through a mouthful of crumbs. "Can'tbesho."

Jack rolled his eyes, but smiled slightly, despite himself. He started to go, then stopped. "You're – well, you're not quite what I expected. Even if you still have no idea what you're doing."

"I think that was your version of a compliment," Sam said. "So don't break anything rushing over here to hug me, since we're such mates now."

"You're a pillock." Jack's tone left it unclear if this was a lighthearted bit of banter, or still his genuine opinion (though Sam guessed the latter). "But I suppose it would be a shame if you died – soon, that is, since you're clearly going to die anyway. Good night."

With that, he turned on his heel and vanished below, leaving Sam still hungry and wondering if it was worth hunting down the scraps in the galley, or if he should just go to bed and try to forget about it (though when he got home, if he did, he was eating the entire pantry and buttery). But before he could do either, the ladder creaked again, and Da Souza emerged into the deepening dusk. "Young Jones. You were not at supper?"

"No." Sam shrugged. "Glad we're on our way, though, and I was just about to turn in. So if you'll excuse me – "

The captain held out an arm. "Wait. Everything you discovered today, you told me?"

"Of course," Sam said, somewhat shortly. "But even if not, I don't see you rushing to tell me what _you_ did today."

Da Souza grinned, conceding the point. "It is difficult when we cannot quite trust each other, is it not? But as you and I both know, we do share the goal of reaching Skeleton Island. So if there was anything else, anything you kept back. . . I have been speaking with Jack Bell, and he says that he can confirm everything you have said thus far, but you do not trust him altogether either. So between friends, or at least men with common purpose. . . anything else?"

Sam felt a brief surprise that Jack would stand up for him – though if it was merely a matter of providing yes-or-no answers to questions about already offered information, Jack was clearly playing enough of his own game, different from the Spaniards, to be savvy enough to venture that but no more. "I've told you everything useful. No good to prevent us from getting to Skeleton Island when I have more than enough to lose if we don't, aye?"

"Indeed," Da Souza acknowledged, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder. "And for which I must say, young Jones, I am truly sorry."

"Sorry?" Sam was startled. "What the devil for?"

"Well," Da Souza said. "This." And with one quick, strong, headlong heave, threw him overboard.

* * *

It was still early, but clearly nobody was going back to sleep. Someone went to wake David and Mary Margaret and inform them of the situation, servants were dispatched with lanterns and truncheons to search the house and grounds for any sign of forced entry or site of a struggle, and Flint and Emma went to hitch up the Nolans' cabriolet and drive it at high speed through the just-stirring streets to the docks. Neither of them could quite say why they went there, other than following an instinct that if Killian _had_ been abducted, his captors might have wanted to transport him out of town as quickly as possible. There was theoretically a chance that they had traveled overland, but as Charlestown was a port city and the roads both south and north were muddy, marshy, and wild, a boat, rather than a wagon, would have been the best option for any quick getaway. Flint and Emma jumped down and ran from quay to quay, but if there _had_ been mischief here earlier in the night, there was no sign of it now. _I shouldn't have waited so long. I should have gone to look as soon as he wasn't back in an hour, not tried to sleep and forget about it. I lost time, and now I've lost him._

Emma was unable to ignore the thought that of course this was what she would get, returning to such a transparently hexed a place as Charlestown, that it would not count itself content in its damages until it had also taken her husband from her. She did her best to ignore the gnawing terror in her insides until they had finished the search, with no trace of him, and she stood motionless in the dawn wind, still in her nightgown tucked into a pair of breeches and boots, hair whipping in her face. "He isn't here. He's gone."

"He has to be somewhere." Flint's mouth was grim as granite. "Anyone you can think of, who knows what goes on around here?"

"I – yes." Not that there was any guarantee that a blind woman would have anything useful to report, since it wasn't as if she could have seen the perpetrators, but that one was uncanny anyway. "This way."

Within a quarter-hour, they were standing in front of the shuttered-up pot shop as Flint banged mercilessly on the door, until there was finally the sound of several curses of a considerably potent nature, the bolt slid open, and the witch demanded, "What has your britches in a bunch, laddie-me-lad? Decent folk are abed at this hour, you know."

"I very much doubt you're any sort of decent folk. You s – hear anything on the docks earlier? Round about midnight, most likely."

"Answers cost, you know."

"Your reward is that I won't kill you."

"Och. No manners at all." The witch tutted. "Well, if that's all you can offer, you can be on your way directly, unless – "

"Wait," Emma interrupted. "It's me. From earlier. I was asking about – "

"You?" The witch's voice swiveled in her direction. "What's such a nice lassie as you doing with a frightful grump like him?"

"Never mind. Do you know about anything? We can pay."

The witch's hand shot out through the door, and Flint – with a look of deep disapproval – put a silver penny into it, which vanished in a twinkling. Then she said, "Did hear a to-do in the wee hours. Sounded like those scalawags that Lord Murray keeps about to do some of his errands of a. . . less than savory nature. Them boys and their prancing peacock of a leader, Rufio. Had someone with them, by the sound, someone unconscious. They were hauling him, they were, down to a ship. Suppose it was Rufio's. I'm a poor helpless old woman, 'tis all I know."

Flint and Emma exchanged a very sharp look. "Lord _Murray's_ scalawags?"

"Aye. A gang of them. The Lost Boys, they're called, and I'd not fancy getting on the wrong side of them. That's all. All, I said."

Flint looked as if he was about to throttle the witch into more answers, but Emma put a hand on his arm. They had something more important to follow up now, and while it would be quite delicate to burst uninvited and with unfriendly intentions into the governor's mansion at the crack of dawn, it was nonetheless what Emma was perfectly willing to do if necessary. Nobody was in any haste to replay their family's _last_ confrontation in that building, but she was not about to let any potential lead on Killian's whereabouts slip through their fingers. Still, knowing that it would be exceptionally unwise to bring Flint along, especially if Lord Murray meant to do them ill, she said, "You should go back to the Nolans. I'll go to the governor and – "

"And what, demand answers? By yourself?"

"You can't come with me, and if Murray did order Killian kidnapped, I need to know. He's not going to get away with this, he – "

"You go in there alone, you're more than likely never coming out! Fucking hell, Emma, you can't – "

At that moment, distracting them from their argument, they heard the sound of clopping hooves, and when they looked up, they saw David Nolan riding toward them, old Navy captain's jacket thrown over his nightshirt, saber buckled on, and lantern in hand. "Any sign of him?" he called, as he came nearer. "Killian?"

"We think he might have been snatched," Emma said. "By some local gang of ne'er-do-wells, apparently in the pay of Lord Murray. The Lost Boys."

David got a dark look, as this was evidently a familiar species of Charlestown riffraff, but he also appeared somewhat baffled. "They're a bit of a problem around here, aye, but as far as I know, they're not being _paid_ by Murray. He promised to eradicate such undesirable – "

"Well," Flint said. "That old hag says they are. And on this accord, I am more inclined to believe her than you. It seems Lord Murray is lying about nearly everything, doesn't it?"

"I'm going," Emma said tightly. "I need to know what he did to Killian."

"You still can't – "

"I'll go," David interrupted. "With her. As before. Captain, you take my horse and go back to the house."

Flint eyed David with deep suspicion. At last he said, "I'm her father, not you."

"Aye, but we all know that you can't walk into the governor's mansion, in Charlestown, demanding vengeance yet again. Besides, if he takes you prisoner, Murray can demand whatever he wants, whether from your family or the English authorities alike. I swear, I will look after her. But either way, we are wasting time."

"I trust him," Emma said to Flint, low-voiced. "Go back and tell the others."

Flint still did not look happy with this arrangement, but at last he inclined his head a grudging half-inch, waited until David dismounted, then took the reins and swung up onto the horse. He spun it around, set his heels to its sides, and with half a glance back, cantered off up the street.

David and Emma started to walk, neither of them having expected to make a return visit to the governor's mansion so soon, but needs must. It was full light by the time they strode up the lawn, passed under the handsome portico, and knocked insistently on the door until finally a servant answered, aghast at their dishabille and flagrant disregard of protocol. "You simply cannot expect to call on the governor at this hour, in such estate and _without_ an appointment, so please be off before we have to – "

Emma stepped up and pushed past him, clearing the way for David to follow, as – completely ignoring the servant's continued strident protestations – they crossed the hall, shoved open the dining-room doors, and marched in to where Lord Gideon Murray, in an embroidered silk dressing gown, was taking his breakfast. He had just been scooping an egg into an eggcup and flipping through a pile of official dispatches, but he looked up, caught sight of them, and started to his feet, rocking the table. "Captain Nolan, Mrs. Jones. What is the reason for this most unexpected visit at such an – "

"Where's my husband?"

Murray blinked. "Mrs. Jones?"

"Where is my husband? Killian. What did you and your little gang of miscreants do to him?"

"I'm afraid I don't have the remotest notion what you're talking about."

Murray was a good liar – one of the best Emma had met, in fact – but she usually had a sense for these things, and she was now convinced beyond all doubt that he was, in fact, lying. She took a step closer, fists clenched, fighting the urge to hit him in the face. "Bring him back. Whatever you did. You took Killian away from me."

"If your husband has come to grief, that is very sad, but I cannot be held responsible for – "

"NOW!"

If Murray flinched, it was difficult to tell. But when he glanced up at her, his eyes had changed, flat and shrewd. He considered her a moment longer, then said abruptly, "Very well. Let us drop the courtesies. If I was to remark that I might indeed know something about the whereabouts of your husband, and that by cooperating with me, you might acquire them, what would your answer to that be?"

"Wh – so yesterday, everything you said – "

"I said I did not intend to persecute you for your past, and indeed I do not. I said nothing about not profiting from you in the future."

"Jesus," Emma said. "You're just like your uncle."

At that, Murray did actually flinch. "I beg your pardon? My uncle?"

"Aye. Yesterday – I asked around, I found out who you are. Lord Robert Gold's nephew."

"His nephew? That's who you think I am?"

"Well – " Emma faltered. "Aren't you?"

"No." Murray laughed, without humor. "I'm his son."

"His _s –_ "

"You were just remarking on the family resemblance you thought you glimpsed, weren't you? My mother was his second wife, and I was born late in his life. I was only a very small child when he met his downfall in Nassau. After which, I was taken in by my aunt, Lady Fiona, and my origins concealed from society." Murray continued to stare at Emma, with that hard, cold, calculating look so ill-fitting on his boyishly handsome face. "Does that surprise you, madam?"

Emma had to admit that it did, though she wasn't sure why. During the pirates' war against Gold, and considering Killian's experiences with him, she had almost thought of him as some shadowy, faceless entity, with no origin and no end and no human life, rather than a mortal man who might have had any such mundane thing as a wife and young child back in England. Not that it made her care for him any more, but still. "What happened to your mother?"

Something flickered in Gideon Murray's eyes long enough for her to tell that this was perilous ground to tread. After a pause, he said, "Not that it is your business, but in any event, I don't know. Didn't care enough to keep me, I suppose, or simply wanted to be rid of the scandal now attaching to the Gold name, run off and see the world without the burden of my existence. Are you interested in what I have to tell you, Mrs. Jones, or not?"

Emma thought it was a mark of just how much he did not care for the subject that he was willing to steer the conversation back to Killian. Despite herself, she felt a brief, poignant sympathy for him. Wanted to tell him that a mother did not always part from her children for not loving them, that she had sent Henry and Geneva away to Paris many years ago to protect them and it remained the most painful thing she had ever done, but given as Gideon had likewise abducted a member of her family, that was rather more sympathy (and information) than she felt he was presently entitled to. She didn't know the reasoning of the presumable Mrs. Gold, but complicated as it likely was, it was still not her main concern. "Where's Killian?"

"As I noted, that is something you can learn in due course, _if_ you cooperate with me. First – "

"Indeed," Emma said. "Gold's son. I see it."

"I am _not_ like him!" Gideon whirled around and hurled a salver of scrambled eggs hard enough to bounce off the sideboard. "Do you think I'm doing this for some sort of revenge on my _father's_ behalf? I'm not. He was a bad man, and the world is well rid of him. Now. As I said earlier. I'll tell you what happened to your husband if you work with me. You and _your_ father, to speak of family examples – you know where Skeleton Island is. And this time, I will not miss my chance."

"This time – ?" Emma was momentarily baffled, until it hit. "You're the person that Billy contacted in Charlestown. Aren't you. Did you send the assassins after us too? Since that seems to be your style."

"No." Gideon's eyes flashed. "I have no idea about those. But yes, I spoke to Billy Bones. I know where he's going too, in fact, and why. And yet, I'd rather that his progress was not allowed to continue without interruption. So if you and Flint lead me to Skeleton Island, I'll tell you where your husband is. Refuse, and you'll never see him again."

"This – so all this was to get us to _help_ you?" Emma stared at him in patent disbelief. "You couldn't get the information from Billy?"

"No," Gideon said coolly. "I did try. But he would only reveal it to Mother."

"Meaning Lady Fiona? So the two of you are in this together?"

Gideon snorted. His opinion of his adoptive mother did not seem particularly high either, until Emma supposed that if he wanted Fiona and Billy to achieve their aims in peace, he would not presently be conspiring to thwart them with her and Flint. It made her head hurt to contemplate how many different aims and games were swirling in a maelstrom of intrigue, how many angles that absolutely everyone was playing for their own benefit, and it summoned a grim smile to her lips, as it reminded her of the good old days on Nassau. She didn't think that Gideon was lying about not sending the assassins, which raised the unhappy possibility that there was yet _another_ enemy out there, lurking in the shadows and waiting another chance to strike. Emma wasn't even sure whose side Gideon was on – certainly not theirs, not clearly Billy's either, seemingly eager to separate himself from the shadow of his father, plotting against his aunt who had raised him, until it wound more and more of an inextricably tangled skein. Emma could guess that he wanted to find Skeleton Island for the same reason everyone did – vast hordes of lost riches – but less sure for what. As calmly as she could, she said, "And if we don't help you?"

"As I said. Then you can search for your husband as long as you like, but I won't say where. As well, I suspect that all of Charlestown might be bloody pleased to finally get their hands on the authentic Captain Flint, wouldn't they?"

"You bastard."

"You were the one to bring him back here. Not me." Gideon looked at her flatly. "Do you somehow require time to think it over, or have I made myself clear?"

"You've made yourself clear, all right." David Nolan spoke up for the first time, eyeing the younger man just as coolly. "I had high hopes when you were appointed governor, you know. But I also knew your father. No matter what you want to say, you're much more like him than you ever want to admit."

"Nobody asked you, Captain."

"Indeed," David agreed. "They did not. But so you know, I will be siding with Mrs. Jones and her family in this affair, Governor. Whatever assistance I can offer to her, I will – and I don't think that you control the courts and the magistrates _quite_ enough to push through a show trial and conviction for Captain Flint without any challenge at all, no matter what happened twenty-five years ago. And since you may not know, having only held this post for a few months, I _was_ appointed lord sheriff of the city last year. I would, I assure you, have more than a thing or two to say if you tried."

Gideon glared at him, while Emma put a quiet, grateful hand on David's shoulder. Then the young governor wheeled back to her. "Well?"

Emma hesitated. She didn't want to help Gideon, she didn't want to drag the world back to Skeleton Island (though it seemed that the world was more than on its way already), and she did not want anything about this situation in general – but however twisted his methods and rationale in abducting Killian, they were undoubtedly and regretfully effective. She could not run the risk of permanently losing him, she simply could not. She knew that he would be fighting like the devil to get back to her, but she could not do any less, could not sit back and think that his efforts alone would be enough, or live with herself if she did. Cooperate with Gideon, at least for the time being. Keep her family safe. Find the love of her life. That was all that mattered.

"Fine," she said, very quietly and very coldly. "What do you want me to do?"

It was almost an hour later when they finally left the governor's mansion. They walked back to the Nolan estate, where they received an anxious and relieved welcome – for obvious reasons, the rest of the family had been more than half convinced that their next call would be from Lord Murray's henchmen arriving to chuck them into the same dungeon. Upon hearing of the turn of events, Flint reamed Gideon up one side and down the other (which was enjoyable even if ultimately ineffective in terms of changing anything) but he did not tell Emma that she should have chosen differently, that she should have valued Killian's life less than she had – Flint of all people knew something about doing drastic things for lost loved ones. "So what does the little shitstain think we're going to do?" he growled at last. "Sail straight to Skeleton Island and stuff gold coins into his greedy paws?"

"No," Emma said. "At least not at once. He wants us to go to Philadelphia. There's something there we're supposed to pick up for him."

"What, the black magic rod of Beelzebub?" Flint continued to look thunderous. "As soon as we get Killian back, I am tearing that bastard into tiny little – "

"Listen," Emma interrupted, appreciating his bloodlust but feeling the need to keep them focused. _"Philadelphia._ Henry was planning to move there, remember? He and Violet and their children could be there already. He was going to work for Mr. Franklin, the printer and publisher. Everyone in the Colonies, more or less, reads one of his newspapers or almanacs. So if we could get him to put a notice in one of them – "

"We wouldn't have to rely solely on Gideon fucking Murray's word to find Killian." As usual, Flint was two steps ahead of her. "Get all of the Americas on the lookout for him. Be better in that case that they didn't know he was Hook, or they'll lynch him themselves and spare Murray's gang of pustulant guttersnipes the trouble."

"Of course not. But if they know to look for a Mr. Jones of his description, we can tell them to report here." Emma looked at David. "If that's all right?"

"Aye," David said. "Though I also thought, if you allow, that I'd come with you. I do not doubt your ability to handle whatever you must, but it is also true that Captain Flint and Captain Swan do not have, shall we say, much protection from the world. I retired from the Royal Navy with full honors, I am a wealthy and respected member of the community, owner of business interests on Nassau, and the lord sheriff of Charlestown. They can't treat me the same way they might feel justified in treating you."

Surprised and deeply touched, even if only one of them was liable to admit it, Emma and Flint blinked in unison, then nodded. After a pause, Mary Margaret said, "Would Mrs. McGraw be staying here, then? I'd be happy to host her, of course."

"You are very kind," Miranda said. "It is true that I am not in much condition to be running hither and yon across the Americas, and your home is lovely. But I – I could not endure to be in Charlestown for long, especially by myself. I will accompany James and Emma to Philadelphia, and if Henry and Violet are there and amenable, I will stay with them. Safer, I think, than returning to Savannah alone."

Flint did not look pleased at the prospect of leaving her at all, especially with Thomas already gone on a risky and unplanned adventure, and he and his wife had not spent a single night apart since their reunion almost twenty years ago. But he knew it would be cruel to expect Miranda to face the same physical exigencies when she was already fragile, and he likewise could not risk that. Finally he said, "Add that to Murray's butcher's bill, then. I suppose, objectively speaking, that it's the best course of action. But if _anything_ happens to you or Thomas, so help me God – "

"James." Miranda slid her fingers through his, squeezing hard, as Emma was left to consider that indeed, God help the individual who still thought it was a wise idea to come between James Flint and the Hamiltons. "We've been through worse."

Flint clearly did not find that particularly reassuring, but nodded nonetheless, extremely shortly. They sat in silence a few moments more, all of them doubtless wondering how their happy, settled lives had gone in the span of barely a month into such a dangerous mess and muddle, so many balls in the air and so many wagers raised. Emma had no idea where either Geneva or Sam were, felt serious reservations at the idea of drawing Henry and his family into this as well, and there was of course the fact that her heart would not be whole again until they found Killian. They would, one way or another, she had no doubt of that. But that did not mean that she would not count every week, every day, every hour, every minute until they were together again. Flint was not the only one who could not bear the idea of being parted from a spouse (or in his case, spouses) an instant longer than terribly necessary. _We will do this. We have to._

"Fine," Emma said again, at last. "It's time to get ready."

As everyone was getting up and preparing to pack and dress, David promising that he could find them a ship, Emma stepped up and quietly caught at Flint's sleeve. He turned with a brusque expression, but managed to answer her politely. "Aye?"

"Do you remember our first Christmas together in Savannah? After Killian and I moved from Boston with the children?"

One of Flint's gingery eyebrows flicked in surprise, as neither of them were ordinarily given to sentimental reminisce, but he nodded. "Aye. Of course."

"It was then that. . ." Emma tried to find the right words. How Flint, Miranda, and Thomas had bought rather too many presents for Geneva and Sam and then denied all culpability, how the thoroughly overexcited children had dragged the adults out of bed at some ungodly hour, how – after all the years apart, the darkness, the separation, the pain and fear, the struggle and war – it had been as simple as being together for Christmas, and being so happy that they were. How they could not help but recall the Christmas spent together on Nassau with Sam Bellamy, many years ago, before it had gone sour that afternoon. Emma lifted her eyes to Flint, who was still watching her curiously, and said only, "I think it was then that I knew we all would work. As a family."

"Aye." For once, Flint did not bother to deny it or deflect it, the hint of the softer side that, after years living as James McGraw with his husband and wife, away from the madness and the sea, he was finally more able to express. "What you and Killian have given us, with Jenny and Sam – it's a gift I bloody well don't take for granted, you can have my word on that. And we'll put that family back together, Emma. Whatever it takes."

Emma nodded wordlessly. It occurred to her that while she at least had a rough idea of Geneva's whereabouts, trapped into this delicate voyage to England with John Silver, she still had none whatsoever of Sam's, and she was now forced into the very situation she had been so relieved to avoid, of worrying about him and Killian both. Sam was too good, too sweet, too open, too selfless – too much like the elder namesake he resembled in haunting ways, and Emma's heart was worn raw with running over all the possible trouble he could have gotten himself into. She knew that he struggled with the idea of whether he was good enough as a pirate, if he had not faced the same things as his parents and grandparents and even his elder sister, and with her and Killian for a mother and father, the lad was unfortunately bound to struggle with his self-esteem. But they had fought and bled and sacrificed precisely so Henry, Geneva, and Sam did not have to do the same, so they could have that happy childhood and that bountiful Christmas without the shadow of death and destruction looming over their heads, and she did not want Sam to have to live the way she and Killian had, more than anything. Yet she feared that for a young man of nineteen, he saw only the adventure he had not had, and the shame he felt for it. "I want Sam home," she said convulsively. "I want my baby home. Him and Killian. I need them home."

"We'll find them," Flint said again. "And then I'll dismantle Gideon Murray, mark my words. Come on, Emma. The tide's going out soon, and I intend to be on it."

"Aye." Emma allowed herself one more moment of weakness, of grief, of fear, and then shut it away, squaring her shoulders, preparing to face up to the fight. "So do I."


	8. VIII

Reliably finding one's way when lost (or well adrift, or even simply at) sea had long been one of the most vexing questions facing modern navigation. Since 1714, there had been an outstanding act of Parliament promising a prize for whoever came up with the quickest and best method for calculating longitude, and some of the greatest minds in science were busily on the job, working from the Royal Observatory of Greenwich and other institutes of astronomical study around Europe. There was talk of inventing a portable clock that worked at sea, or an almanac cataloguing known times at fixed points around the globe, or other such innovations to drastically simplify everyone's lives, but in the interim, Geneva was still stuck with old-fashioned dead reckoning, which was singularly unhelpful when you had lost all track of your previous course. Dead reckoning depended on knowing where you had been, where you came from, and calculating an expected trajectory based on distance, speed, and time. Their last position to be known with any certainty was Bermuda, and the night – while not storming again, thank God – was still mostly overcast, rendering it impossible to get a good reading on the stars. She _hoped_ they hadn't been forced too far off course, but there was presently no way to be sure.

Geneva muttered a curse between her teeth, wishing that Daddy was here. Killian Jones had been recognized for a nearly preternatural ability to chart a course even while in the Navy, in any sort of challenging conditions, and she could do with a bit of reassurance. Thomas was doing his best, but he wasn't a sea captain, and it would also be nice to have her father here in general. Geneva loved her mother, but she adored her father, possibly because of that strange, tender, painful way it always was with mothers and daughters, and Geneva, having spent much of her adult life to date in nearly the exclusive company of men, was not sure how to deal with it. And Emma Swan Jones was so, well, intimidating. A pirate captain in her own right, a woman who had fought through half the battles of the pirates' war while pregnant with Geneva, one of the few living people to know the secrets of Skeleton Island, brave and beautiful, who had scraped and clawed and struggled so much for her family while never thinking of herself. . . at times, Geneva could not help but feel that she was a bit of a pale copy by comparison. She likewise had a good deal of her mother's emotional standoffishness in her, a wariness of letting people too close until they proved themselves, and sometimes even after.

As well, Emma was warm and loving and attentive, but not someone who easily or naturally invited raw vulnerability or heartfelt talks about feelings, and Geneva still did not know how to relate to her parents as equals, not as their child. At times, she envied her little brother. Sam was cute and sweet and funny and everyone liked him, the typical youngest child and baby of the family who almost always got what he wanted, and who never had to force the world to take him seriously by simple virtue of his sex. Life seemed much easier for Sam.

Geneva wiped the condensation off the sextant with a fistful of her skirt, and lifted it to the sky again, squinting in search of the pole star. But though she momentarily thought she had glimpsed it, it vanished again, and she flung the heavy brass instrument down on the stack of charts with another curse. They'd just drift at sea forever at this rate if she couldn't fix it, compounding her earlier mistake and everything she had already cost them, everything she had –

"Need some help?"

She jumped, taken off guard, and smudged at her cheeks with her sleeve, in case any traitorous tears were thinking of falling. "I'm fine. You can go."

John Silver looked as if he had once more expected this response. He didn't bother asking if everything was all right, regarding her angrily scribbled calculations and the measuring stick lying next to the inkwell. Then he said, "It's difficult, I know. Let me help."

"I don't need your help."

"If it wasn't for the skirt and lace, I'd swear it was your grandfather standing in front of me."

"Then my grandfather had the right idea. You're dismissed, Mr. Silver. Good night."

Silver sighed, half to himself. Then he hobbled past her, picked up the sextant, smoothed out the crumpled charts, and read over what she had managed to get down. He did a bit of quick arithmetic, set the sundial in the muted moon-glow, and compared it to something on one of the star maps. He crossed something out, wrote something else in, and just then, the dark curtain over the heavens parted long enough for him to take a few readings with the sextant. "There," he said, filling in something at the bottom of the paper. "How does this look?"

Geneva considered ignoring him again, decided that for once it could wait, and leaned icily past him to evaluate the estimated bearings. If they were correct, they were substantially south and east of their intended route – which was not all bad, as they had covered almost a week's worth of latitude in a few days, thanks to the fury of the wind and current – but would still require considerable correction to veer back north for England. And as north was where the hurricane had been, that risked running into it again, and Geneva's confidence had been badly shaken. She had sailed with Mr. Arrow since she was sixteen, and he had a wife and son at home in Savannah, whom it would be her duty to face when they returned. She had lost crewmen before, but always somewhere else, offstage, as much as a result of their unwise decisions as any error on her part. Some died, some drank, some deserted; it was the mariners' natural order of things, not outstandingly upsetting or unexpected. But this was different.

"Your reckoning looks accurate," she said, very coolly. "Thank you. I'll check it over again if we have some clearing tomorrow. That puts us ahead of schedule for England, so I'm sure that pleases you. Silver lining to the storm clouds, bloody literally."

He blinked, apparently unsure if he was permitted to laugh at the quip, but wisely decided otherwise. "Gen – Captain Jones," he began. "This voyage, it – "

"Excuse me, my dear," a voice said behind them. "Do you think I could have a private word with Mr. Silver?"

Both of them turned to see Thomas, who had emerged from below and crossed the deck to them. He was unshaven, the considerable grey in his beard matching that of his hair, which he had kept simple and close-cropped even long after his release from the plantation work camp. In this eerie light, the lines and weathering in his face were well apparent, as was a peculiar hardness in his eyes, one that Geneva had never associated with him – with her famously hot-tempered grandfather, yes, but never her gentle, patient, kind great-uncle, who had somehow remained that way even after everything the world had done to him. She frowned. "Uncle Thomas, are you – "

"Quite well. You look dead on your feet, you know. If perhaps you pop on to bed?" Thomas' tone was cordial, but he clearly did not intend to be denied.

After a moment, Geneva nodded, leaned up to kiss his cheek, and made her way down to the cabin. But then – moved by some impulse that she did not take the time to think through, feeling bad for the deception but not enough to stop – she opened and closed the cabin door loudly enough for them to hear it, and then flattened herself in the shadows under the railing, keeping quiet. This was her ship, she reminded herself. A captain had a right to know what went on with her men aboard her ship.

For several moments, it seemed as if that would be nothing at all. Geneva couldn't see them, as they were standing above and behind her, but there was no sound. Then Silver, in a clear attempt to break the ice, said, "So, a nice evening, is it?"

Thomas snorted. "I think both of us are well bloody aware that I did not come out here to talk about the weather. I am grateful to you for saving my life, to be sure, but it cannot delay or distract me from what I have to say. And that, Mr. Silver, I will do so once, and once alone. Stay away from my niece."

"You think – " Silver sounded genuinely flabbergasted. "What, you think I have some sort of _intention_ with her?"

"I've no idea what sort of intention you have with anyone, a character trait that you seem more than self-aware enough to realize for yourself. I have certainly noticed your persistent interest in speaking to her alone, in trying to come upon her when she's vulnerable, or making yourself sympathetic and indispensable and necessary. Geneva blames herself for the storm and Mr. Arrow's death, because she's a good-hearted lass. But we both know, Mr. Silver, that everything that happens on this voyage will ultimately be laid to your account. Don't we."

"My account has paid in due course for everything charged to it, Lord Hamilton, and I have no doubt that it will again. Have no fear on that accord."

"Always so cryptic, aren't you?" Thomas, a man to whom openness, generosity, and honesty was such a fundamental part of his nature, sounded amused. "Always the riddle, always the yellow curtain of the cut-rate conjuror's fortune-telling booth in Cheapside. Now, I suppose, will come the part where you tell me that all of this will be for our own good? If you saw Billy Bones' survival as a threat to our family, something we would have an interest in dealing with, why on earth did you not simply _ask_ us to help you? Tell us the situation and your plan to face it, plainly? Why go to the trouble of this smoke-and-mirrors charade, this trickery and illusion and half-truth, trying to lead us by the nose on yet another madman's crusade of which only you know the full story? It has been a quarter of a century since James knew the John Silver he spoke of to me, and yet it seems, for you, that it could have been yesterday."

"Told you much of me then, has he?" Silver's tone likewise remained polite, but cool and unrevealing as blue ice. "Told you everything?"

"Not everything, which I would neither expect nor insist upon. But – "

"So he likewise keeps secrets. Flint always did. And yet you will condemn me for doing the same? I swear, I do not mean you or your niece any harm. I proved that during the storm, did I not? Geneva, I – I care – "

"What? You think you _care_ for her?" Thomas did not sound reassured in the least. "In my experience, there is scarcely a more perilous prospect than to be cared for by John Silver. My niece is a lovely young woman, brave and kind and stubborn, and as I myself and doubtless you have observed, she is very like her grandfather. You can say that you recognize she is not the fetch and second coming of Flint for you to atone whatever guilt you carry over him, but I am not so sure that you do."

"If I have only the fetch of Flint, surely that is no cause for envy?" Silver's voice remained quiet. "Not when you yourself have the real one? And are old mistakes, old griefs we can never take back, yet beyond all hope of reparation or redemption? I would not take you for a man who did not believe in forgiveness, Thomas."

"What I believe, or do not believe, is not your concern. Only your behavior and yes, your beliefs about my niece. I know what you do to people, especially those you claim to cherish the most, and no matter how noble your intentions or how exalted your reasoning, if you try to do the same to Geneva, you will have me to reckon with. Why do any of us ever have children, a new generation, if not to give them a better life than we had, and to help them try to avoid our mistakes? Why, if you claim to still care for James or Madi after all this time, would you try to do to Geneva what drove you apart from them in the first place? Words are only words, and you have long spent them profligately, Mr. Silver. They amount to nothing."

"I did not – " Silver stopped. There was a long, tenuous pause. Then he said with studied casualness, "And you live easily sharing Captain Flint and Lady Hamilton with a ghost, do you?"

"What ghost?"

"Sam Bellamy." Silver sounded as if he had turned to look over the water. "No hint of him remains for them? I doubt it."

"If you refer to how matters were for James and Miranda with Captain Bellamy for a time, I am perfectly well aware of that arrangement. Nor do I begrudge them in the least degree. They thought I was dead, and even if they had not, it would still be their right and choice. And – "

"And as well, Captain Bellamy is dead. Easier to magnanimously forgive, to let go, when you know he will never walk in one day and ask for them back? Not that he would. That man was generous and selfless to a fault. I'm sure he would only be happy for you. Not all of us have the luxury of quiet ghosts, though. If you have made your peace with Bellamy's shadow because of his death, tell me – would you still do so easily if he was alive? If the answer is yes, well, you're a better man than most. If the answer is no, perhaps you understand my struggle with Flint's."

Despite himself, Thomas was clearly caught on the hop by that. For her part, Geneva began to wish she had gone to bed after all, and not stayed here listening to such devastatingly personal revelations, the way both Thomas and Silver seemed to be searching for the weakness in the other's armor: their shared tragedy over Flint, Silver trying to make Thomas jealous with that low blow over Sam Bellamy. Geneva had long suspected that her godfather and her grandparents had been intimately involved, but it was still not something she felt entitled to have confirmed explicitly. But they would hear her if she moved now, and despite herself, she was held in place by morbid fascination. The levels of history and revelation here were raw and shattered and mesmerizing, and she could not quite tear herself away.

After a very weighty silence, Thomas said, "If you're wondering, Mr. Silver, I don't hate you. Or even feel any particularly negative emotion over you. You likewise were an intrinsic part of James' life as Captain Flint – and as we both know, his death. I can appreciate at least that that is a great burden to bear. Still, it is one you chose to take on, and attempting to atone for it by beginning the cycle anew with Jenny will only worsen the wound, not heal it. She doesn't know to be wary of you in the same way that I do. Whether or not you intend it, you are taking advantage of that. It is in your nature. You could no sooner cease your manipulations and live than you could your breathing, and I rather think I have answered my question from earlier. You blackmailed us into this venture because if you simply asked, there was a chance, however slight, that we would refuse. You had to try to erase that chance, and supposed it would be so if you forced it. Now you're the one caught here with me, with Geneva, with Madi. I suspect that you are not finding your success quite as enjoyable as you imagined."

"I never imagined it would be enjoyable."

"I believe you," Thomas said. "Nor do I imagine that that played the slightest role in your deliberations about whether to go through with it, the same as I do not imagine that any care you suspect yourself of feeling for Geneva will stop you from doing to her what you did to James and Madi. I feel sorry for you, Mr. Silver, that such an utter void of trust or belief in the capacity or rationality or ultimate worth of anyone apart from yourself exists so unshakably within you, and I know more than enough of the cruelty of the world, believe me, to know that it was engendered by something truly unspeakable. But it has always been the case that the tighter you clutch something, the sooner you lose it. Good night, sir."

There was a pause, and then Thomas' footsteps began to descend the deck stairs with measured thumps, as Geneva pressed herself further into the darkness and prayed that he did not glance in her direction. He did not, making his way below without pausing to see what, if any, effect his words had had on Silver. Geneva likewise hesitated to see if Silver would follow, but he did not. Evidently the prospect of returning to share a small berth with Thomas was one he could not quite face just yet, and Geneva hoped that this would not totally shatter the fragile armistice in place aboard the _Rose._ Whatever her uncle had said, he clearly felt justified in the name of preventing worse problems later on, and Geneva knew that it came from a place of love for her. Still, she felt even odder, weightless and dazed and uncertain, as if waiting for the world to once more tip over and spin her out into space. It seemed increasingly impossible that she had ever thought she was only off for a pleasant fortnight's vacation.

The weather freshened somewhat the next morning, allowing their course to be calculated and confirmed with more certainty, and Geneva decided to ease them north in hopes of bypassing any trailing outskirts of the hurricane. Both Silver and Thomas agreed to this decision, and indeed the two of them were treating each other with almost painful civility after their midnight confessional, as if to mask any hint or hurt that it had happened at all. Geneva knew that she was not supposed to be aware of this, and thus did not remark on it, much as she could not help but wonder. She almost wished that Thomas would let her take more of the blame, if certainly not from any desire to spare Silver his deserved share. It _was_ still her fault. A captain, for good or ill, could not shirk the consequences of their decisions. The voyage might have been of Silver's purpose and devising, but she had set them out on it.

They sailed hard for the next several days, driven on the back of a strong easterly and a powerful warm-water current, and Geneva reckoned that they had to be at least halfway. Mercifully, the _Rose_ appeared to have taken no lasting damage from the storm, but she would still need to be thoroughly checked over and shored up when they made it to Bristol, and that was assuming no more catastrophes en route. They had plenty of provisions, so that hopefully shouldn't be a concern, but sixth-raters were not inherently designed for long-haul voyages like this – they were the small, fleet strike forces that deployed from a regional base, while the higher rates were the ones who undertook transatlantic crossings and global circumnavigations. The _Rose_ should be fine on a trip to England via Bermuda, but their size unavoidably limited what they could carry, and extended distractions or diversions would be cutting it close. If that happened, well, Geneva would trim rations. They might starve a little, but they would survive.

It was about the sixth day after the storm when they unexpectedly spotted another vessel, about the same size and sail as them. After it did not respond to their hail, as was common maritime protocol for ships that did not want to be fired on, especially in wartime – Geneva briefly thought she might have to order the guns loaded, and despaired that a pitched shootout was exactly what she did not need. But someone on the other ship must have realized that they were living dangerously, and sent up a belated reply. They were closing on course to just a few hundred yards apart, and Geneva noticed that the other vessel was named _Pan,_ presumably after the Greek god of the wild, music, and mischief, which seemed an unusual choice. She was not sure why, however – it was as good a name as any – and shouted up at the deck, "Hey! The captain!"

"Here." The call came back from a tall young man in a striped red-and-black coat, dark hair greased to an Indian crest, who regarded her with lean, hungry appraisal. "Where's yours?"

"I am." They were close enough by now that Geneva didn't have to shout at the top of her lungs, and she noted that the crew of the _Pan_ seemed quite young, even more than was usual for seamen, who didn't tend to make it to a ripe old age. "Who do I have the courtesy to address?"

"Rufio." The young man looked back at her with a rooster's arrogance. "Captain Rufio."

"Captain Jones." Geneva already had a feeling that this was going to be a pissing contest. "Where are you bound?"

It was a fairly common question for ships crossing paths at sea, and yet it – whether that or her name, she wasn't sure – made something flicker in Rufio's eyes. It wasn't enough for Geneva to tell what, but it was there. Then he said. "France. You?"

"England." Geneva glanced up at the _Pan's_ colors – it was not the French _drapeau blanc_ , or the British Union Jack, but some sigil that must be their own design. "You've had good weather?"

Rufio shrugged. "A few squalls earlier. Nothing I couldn't handle. But – "

Just then, there was an almighty uproar on the deck of the _Pan –_ rattling and banging at the hatch, a good deal of crashing, a thump or two that seemed to be of fists, and an indistinct shout that was – for a brief, mad second – almost familiar enough that Geneva could _swear. . ._ no, though. No, that was bloody impossible, she was making it up. A number of Rufio's teenage crewmen rushed to the scene of the disturbance, popping down the hatch like moles down a hole, and Geneva turned sharply to the captain. "What the devil do you have in your hold?"

"Just a stubborn ox, my lady."

"That didn't sound like an ox."

"It's all right, we have it under control. I don't suppose you want us to inspect your holds either?" Rufio swept a graceful, and rather sarcastic, flourish. "I wish you fair winds and a swift journey, Captain."

There was definitely something very odd about that, and Geneva hesitated. If there had been no other mitigating circumstances, she might have pressed the point. She did not have any legal grounds to seize the _Pan,_ of course – it was at least a nominally friendly vessel, had not made any provocative action, and "I didn't like the captain's face" would not serve as a valid defense before a magistrate. Besides, after the storm and how thoroughly it had rattled her self-confidence, and her own calculations about the risks of any more distractions, any brisk engagement or actual firefight was the very last thing they needed. She had already exposed her crew, Thomas, and Madi to more than enough danger, and she did not feel, even as captain, that she still had the authority to throw them headlong and recklessly into more.

And yet. She glanced sidelong at Thomas. "Is it just me, or – ?"

"Something does seem unusual." Thomas glanced down at her with brow furrowed. "If you think so, we could insist on answers, but. . ."

Geneva did not respond at once. She was doubting herself despite her resolve not to, and did not want to be seeing spooks and shadows everywhere after one scarring experience. To call for offensive action on less than the ghost of a hunch, and then indeed find an ox in the hold, would almost entirely erode the suddenly uncertain sandbank she was standing on. But –

Unwillingly, she looked at Silver. The former pirate must know a thing or two of when it was worthwhile to pursue and capture. "Well?"

"You can't help everyone, Geneva." Silver gave no indication as to whether he had noticed anything amiss or not, but either way, his opinion was clear. "We need to keep going."

This was, after all, true. And she had not listened to him the last time, and look where that had gotten him. She still knew who he was, everything Thomas had said, but he had still been right when he told her not to sail into the storm. If nothing else, unlike him, she wanted to learn from her mistakes.

"Fine," Geneva said. Turned away, beckoning for more sail, and watched as they picked up speed, the _Pan_ falling away astern until it was nothing more than a small speck, and the it was gone, and it was once again only them and the sea. If she still wondered, if some part of her remained unsettled, she pushed it away. At least they had avoided another imbroglio. At least they had done the prudent thing. At least they were still on their way.

No matter.

No matter.

* * *

For the first, endless moment as he was falling, Sam was too surprised to move or react at all, which meant that he hit the water headfirst and plunged what felt like fathoms and fathoms below, black salty ocean blasting up every crack and crevice and forcing his mouth open in an instinctive scream, which in turn took in more of it. It was summer in the Caribbean, so at least it wasn't bitterly cold, but it wasn't exactly a soothing hot bath, and he kicked and thrashed uselessly in the void, with absolutely bugger-all idea which way was up and already choking on that first searing gulp. He did remember hearing at some point that you should kick off your shoes if you found yourself inadvertently going swimming in your clothes, and was likewise lucky that he knew how _to_ swim; a vast number of sailors didn't, but with the amount of time Sam had spent happily splashing in creeks and rivers and the beachfront as a lad, that at least he could manage. Possibly. It went without saying that this experience was new to him.

Still whirling about, and very much conscious of the need to breathe at some point in the near future, Sam restored some sense of equilibrium, decided that that way was definitely up and if not, well, and began to stroke as hard as he could. His lungs were burning, but he had just enough presence of mind not to breach the surface like a dying whale, in case Da Souza was waiting with a pistol in the event the shove hadn't finished him off. Bloody, bloody, shit-eating, black-hearted _bastard,_ him and his flea-ridden useless mutt. In an academic way, Sam had known since the start of their acquaintance that Da Souza would do precisely this to him if he felt it expedient – he'd threatened to feed both Sam and Nathaniel to the sharks en route to Cuba, after all – but somehow that had never connected to an actual possibility of him doing it. _Maybe Jack's right, I believe too much of the bloody best of people._ This was a massively inconvenient time to be having this epiphany, what with his present location up the arse of the Caribbean Sea, the _S_ already several hundred yards ahead of him and Jesus Christ knew what swimming around below. Sam could have done without remembering the shark comment. Really, very much so.

Frantically, he considered his options. He could try to swim hell-for-leather and catch up to the ship, as if he ever thought he'd close his eyes again with Da Souza having already tried once to kill him, but. . . alarming as it was, there was no denying that his present conundrum had rather reshuffled his priorities. Fine, then. Sod the lot of them. He'd find Skeleton Island some other way, or just go back to Havana, jailbreak Nathaniel, then change his name and move to the uncharted lands of the Terra Australis. It seemed about the best he could hope for.

Sam stoutly insisted to himself that all of the salt water on his face was from the ocean, heart feeling nearly leaden enough to pull him back under again, as he watched the _S_ slip into the darkness of the horizon. Jack would probably be thrilled when he woke up the next morning and discovered that Sam had conveniently vanished in the night, thus sparing him the ignominy of further association with this imbecile. Güemes had charged him with finding Skeleton Island as well, if Jack wanted to be trusted as a Spanish agent, but since he thought he was so bloody smart, _he_ could figure it out. Go trawl around Nassau a bit. They'd probably be up to their ears in jewels in another fortnight. If there was one word to describe Sam's present state of emotion, that word would be _pissed._ And strangely gutted, for some stupid reason. But mostly pissed.

Very well, then. He wasn't in any danger of freezing to death, but he still was not keen on spending the night like this, and there was enough of a current that he couldn't swim back to St. Kitts and Nevis, which were a good several miles distant already. This was close enough to the main shipping corridor that another vessel might spot him if he managed to stick around, but that was not likely in the dark. He was young and strong and fit, he could keep himself afloat under his own power for a good while, but not indefinitely, and he could feel his jaw ache with a repressed yawn – he was already exhausted, he had been planning to go to bed, not bloody overboard. That was also going to cut into how long he could keep this up. Maybe there was some floating detritus nearby, a barrel or a board, a particularly buoyant clump of seaweed. If nothing else, he had time to investigate.

Sam pointed himself as close back toward the islands as the current would allow, and started to swim. The sea was mostly calm, but there was enough wind to crest wavelets of just the right height to slap him in the face, making his eyes burn and his lips sting. He wanted to indignantly inform the ocean that he was already well aware that it had won this round and it did not need to keep rubbing it in, but he doubted that would stop it. No matter how hard he kicked, the distant shapes of Nevis' mountains never got any closer, velvety patches of pure black against the beautifully star-spangled sky. _I'm going to die, but at least the view is great._

Giving up the struggle to fight the current, Sam rolled onto his back and looked at the sky again. He wasn't in any mood to just let himself sink under and get it over with, but nonetheless, he had to face the very real possibility that this might be it. He would pray, but while he had been duly baptized and attended catechism with the rest of the grammar school boys, it had never much been part of his family's life aside from the bare formalities (and sometimes not even those). He didn't even know who he'd pray to. _Should have expected, when they named me Sam, that I would die at sea._

Sam tried to picture his family's reactions when, or if, they ever heard the news, or if they would be forever left wondering where he had quietly and simply disappeared. They'd be sad, he supposed, especially with the compounded tragedy of losing another Sam young, and they'd certainly mourn his loss. But after a while, surely, it wouldn't be as bad. Time healed most wounds, didn't it? He didn't _want_ to die, but he also did not have a choice in doing it. They'd still have Henry and Geneva, they'd still. . .

Bugger it. This was absolutely bloody terrible, and he did not like a single bit of it. Saying that he _hoped_ his family would be broken by his loss was horrendous, selfish, cruel, and awful, so he had to find a way to convince himself that they wouldn't be permanently affected. But that was likewise the confirmation of his fear that he did not actually mean as much to them, and neither was a satisfying outcome in the least. He was starting to shiver. He had to conserve his strength, or he wasn't making it to dawn.

Sam eddied with the current for a while, there not being much else in the way of scintillating occupation. Then there was a brief, bright flash across the heavens – a shooting star – and reflexively, knowing it was childish but likewise not spoiled for choice, he wished on it. This had the grand result of nothing. Figured.

The wind was getting stronger. A few fingers of cloud dulled the moonlight into muted ivory. A thunderstorm or worse would not surprise Sam in the least, given how thoroughly the universe presently wanted to defecate on him, but he still could not help exclaiming, _"Really?"_ aloud in exasperation, as if that would do anything either. Then a wave slapped him upside the head, and in the amount of time it took him to surface again, Sam realized that he'd had the thought that it might not be so bad if he didn't. This was how it started – you could face anything as long as you stayed strong, but give in, and it was just a matter of time until you were dead. _No._ He might be shit at fighting like a pirate, but he did still want to fight for his life. _Come on, Sam. Think, there's a good lad._

Unfortunately, however, he had run through all of his feasible options, his limbs were cramping so badly that it was difficult for him to keep treading water, and all he could do was hope that another current would carry him in the direction of land, but there was absolutely nothing within in his power to make that happen. He floated some more, biting his lip hard; there was no point to crying, and it would dry him out and drain him of energy faster. _Bloody hope all that treasure is worth it, Jack._ Maybe he could come back as a ghost and haunt the devious pair of them, Jack and Da Souza alike, for the rest of their hopefully short lives. That sounded like a good plan, or at least the only cold comfort he would have. That, or –

Something bumped his leg. Gently at first, so lightly that he wasn't sure he'd felt it. Then again.

Every inch of Sam's flesh stood up cold, a stab of pure animal terror impelling him to swim hard a few lengths away – which doubtless made him look even more like a plump, splashing sea lion to whatever fanged nightmare menace of the deep was just waiting to sample him for a late supper. There was another bump, he kicked out in blind panic, and felt something sleek and big moving close around his legs. At least if he punched a shark in the nose (that was what you were supposed to do, right? Punch them in the nose?) all the ladies back home, specifically Isabelle Hunt, could learn of this somehow and cry over his bravery at his empty grave, and –

Preoccupied with visions of Isabelle tragically eulogizing his Spaniard-fighting, shark-punching, swashbuckling ways and declaring that he would always live on as a hero in her heart, Sam almost didn't notice that the beast had surfaced right next to him, blunt head dripping with water. He yelled, drew back a fist in preparation for an exiting moment of glory, and then, catching belated sight of it against the moon, which had reappeared from behind the clouds, realized to his unspeakable relief that it was not in fact a shark. It was a dolphin, regarding him inquisitively, and it trilled a few short squeaking sounds, as if to ask what on earth he was doing in its sitting room. You know, if dolphins had sitting rooms.

"Er," Sam said, not even able to bother feeling foolish for talking to a fish. "Sorry. Not my fault."

The dolphin frolicked an investigative circle around him, then dove, and Sam felt his heart sink; at least with it, he wouldn't have been completely alone. But in a few minutes it surfaced again, swam closer, and nudged at his arm with its snout, which Sam regarded in bafflement until it occurred to him that the dolphin seemed to want him to put said arm around it. He did so, its smooth skin sliding against his clumsy fingers, and scrabbled to find somewhere to hold on. It shifted and bumped him up onto its back, pulling Sam clear of the water for the first time since he had gone in, and once exposed to the night wind in his soaking clothes, he immediately began to shiver. But there had been tales since antiquity of dolphins helping and rescuing hapless humans lost at sea, and it did seem to Sam that that was what this one was trying to do. "Nice dolphin," he said indistinctly, giving it a pat. "Nice dolphin."

With him more or less hanging onto the dorsal fin, which was an awkward setup but better than nothing, the dolphin began to swim. Sam did hope that this was not to deliver him to be the main course at the shark supper club, but despite himself, he didn't think so. They seemed to be making in the direction of St. Kitts and Nevis, though he had drifted quite a long way out, and couldn't be sure. He kept being afraid that the dolphin would dive, but it didn't. The dark water was alive with glowing plankton, a veritable sea of stars to match the endless crystalline heavens overhead, and Sam would have appreciated it far more if he had not still been in abject fear of his life. His clothes were almost starting to dry, though now they were sticking to him in most unpleasant rough, damp, and salty ways. His balls would be bloody sandpapered after this.

Still, discomfort in intimate regions (and everywhere else) aside, at least he was alive, and for the first time since Da Souza had pulled his little Brutus-in-the-Senate act (not that Sam at all fancied himself Julius Caesar), he had a better-than-even-chance of staying that way. He had no clue what he'd do if the dolphin got him as far as the islands, but that was a problem he would very much like to have, and he had been out here for hours. Dawn could not be far away. It would bring with it its own set of difficulties – namingly, not boiling like a mackerel in the full heat – but as before, one thing at a time.

They were perhaps five miles offshore from St. Kitts, and the eastern sky was rich pink, the stars fading out, when Sam caught sight of a small, moving speck on the horizon further out to sea. At first he thought it was his salt-blinded, blurry, bloodshot eyes playing tricks on him, but as it disappeared behind a swell and then reappeared closer, he realized that it was in fact a man in a rowboat. A rowboat which – although he couldn't be sure – looked rather familiar.

Oh, Jesus bloody Christ. Evidently Da Souza had decided that it was too much of a gamble to assume that the sea had finished the job, and sent someone back to look around and make sure. Why he had sent one man in the launch, instead of half a dozen with rifles or the _S_ itself, was a mystery, but then, Sam wasn't going to guess why the bastard did what he did. Probably wanted to still make it look like an accident, so nobody could blame him if they ended up unable to find Skeleton Island after all. That, or –

Bloody _hell._

As the boat dipped and bobbed down the last wave, Sam could not decide whether to be relieved or angrier than ever. For his part, Jack Bellamy looked as if his own exit from the _S_ had likewise been eventful, in a somewhat different way; he had several scuffs and bruises, as well as a black eye and a gash on the cheek, and as he rowed closer, was pardonably very surprised to find Sam sprawled on a dolphin and regarding him balefully. "Jones!" he shouted. "Get in the damn boat!"

"I'm not getting into anything with you, you bastard! You sign off on Da Souza's little heave-ho before he did it, eh?"

"He just said that he would go up and talk to you to sort things out. Not that he was going to throw you overboard!"

"So what? I thought you couldn't wait to get rid of me!"

"I didn't – " Jack cut himself off with an exasperated expression. "You are sitting on a dolphin. Get in the boat."

"I like Rutherford a lot bloody better than you, thanks. He rescued me, which I didn't see you doing!"

" _Rutherford?"_

"Aye, I decided his name is Rutherford. He'd probably knock you out of that boat if I told him to."

For a moment, Jack once more threatened to laugh, before a look of doubled exasperation crossed his face. "I do not believe you."

"Give me one good reason why I should believe _you."_

"I didn't know he was going to do that, I swear. I only woke up because the bloody dog started barking up a storm. I went up and asked what was going on, Da Souza said you'd fallen overboard, but I got the truth out of him quick enough. He tried to convince me that it was a wise decision, that we could make better time and have a better chance – as well as a bigger share of the treasure – without you. I didn't think so, so we had a. . . disagreement. I finally managed to steal the launch and get away. I've been looking for you half the damn night. Get in the boat."

Sam was not sure what part of this was more remarkable: the fact that the mangy mutt had actually inadvertently been useful, that Jack had thought enough of him – or rather his own prospects of getting to Skeleton Island – to fight Da Souza over it, or that he had bothered to come back in however vain hopes of plucking Sam out of the sea. "Well," he said, somewhat less vehemently. "I'm still mad at you."

"I am entirely capable of changing my mind and rowing away, if you and Rutherford are such great mates."

Sam considered a moment longer. It _was_ true that he was sitting on a dolphin, but he still did not want that to be the only reason he returned to the less-than-welcoming bosom of someone who had made their disdain for him perfectly clear at repeated intervals. "You're just rescuing me because you think I'm a better opportunity to get you to the treasure, aren't you?"

"I'm not convinced you have any idea what you're doing. Still." Jack shrugged, with something oddly between anger and diffidence. "I'd rather you didn't die if it meant I would be partly responsible for it."

"You said it would be a shame if I died soon, since I'd die anyway."

"JUST GET IN THE GODDAMN BOAT, JONES!"

At this, Rutherford the dolphin evidently decided that it had had quite enough of this nonsense. It uttered a piercing squeak, pitched Sam off its back, and dove without further ado, leaving Sam once more comprehensively in the drink. He was thus obliged to swim to the stupid boat, muttering under his breath, and only discovered that he didn't have the strength to grab on when the board slipped out of his fingers as if they were overcooked noodles. He tried again, could barely feel it, could not get up enough momentum to haul himself over, and was certainly not about to ask for help, whereupon Jack grabbed both his arms and threw him into the bottom of the boat like a sack of grain. Sam lay flat, feeling as if he would probably vomit if he sat up, and did not move.

At last, when Jack's upside-down judgmental stare had become too much to deal with, Sam very slowly ventured to return himself to an upright position. He was out of one fix, aye, but that still left them squarely in another. There were no provisions in the launch, so they would have to go back to St. Kitts and Nevis anyway, and they had no ship or other apparent way of going – wherever the damnation they were going. Sam still had to rescue Nathaniel, Jack clearly cared enough about his Charlotte and the girls (Sam ignored a completely inexplicable prick of annoyance at how cozily familial that sounded) that he was not about to throw up his hands and admit defeat, and Da Souza himself was probably not feeling _entirely_ at ease about losing both the charges that Güemes had given him. If nothing else, he would want to ensure that they were dead and not able to interfere, especially if Jack had caused a spectacle on the way out. "Mmf," Sam said, eyes closed. "Are they coming after us?"

He sensed more than saw Jack shrug. "First mate nearly grabbed me as I was taking the launch."

"So what'd you do?"

"Shot him," Jack said, with no more concern than if he was remarking on having given him a good scolding. "Don't quite think I killed him, but they had to fish him out of the water rather than worry about me. Besides, they couldn't see me in the dark, and from what I heard as I was getting the fuck out of there, it didn't sound as if all that was one of Da Souza's more popular decisions. The men seemed to think he'd let both of their best chances for finding Skeleton Island slip through his fingers, rather literally. Not much likelihood of them being organized enough to chase us, if they were busy fighting."

"Right." Sam glanced at the several muskets and pistols piled at one end of the launch – of course Jack had brought the guns but no food – and gingerly moved his feet away from them. "So that's what you'll do if they pop up again? Shoot them?"

Jack grinned, revealing a white and slightly sharp canine. "Some of them."

Sam was unsure whether that made him feel safer or not. Jesus, Jack was a terrifying bloke. He supposed that if duty called, he could join in on said shooting – he _had_ fought in Oglethorpe's army, after all, and shot at Jack, before he knew he was Jack (though in his opinion, Jack could still stand some shooting at now) back in St. Augustine. But he had never actually killed anyone before, and was not particularly eager to do it. Da Souza had damn near successfully tried to drown him, yes, but Sam would still have trouble pointing a gun at him and firing it with the express intention to kill him, and he felt that he would be haunted by it for a long time if he did. He supposed that was what he now had Jack for, but he didn't even quite want Jack to do it. _The world is a stupid bloody place, you ask me._

He accepted the waterskin that Jack tossed him, fumbled the cork out, and practically poured it all over his face gulping it down. He felt completely desiccated, had to remind himself that this was their only fresh water until they resupplied somewhere, and did his best to pace himself, but it just tasted so bloody good. He sat there with his eyes closed, trying to regain his sense of balance, as his inner ear had been totally fucked by the watery misadventures of the night. At least that might hold him until –

It was a small noise from Jack that made him open his eyes. They were still sitting directly in the main shipping lane off St. Kitts and Nevis, and they were less than fifty miles from Antigua, Royal Navy headquarters. Thus it was, all things considered, completely foreseeable and unsurprising that there was now what appeared to be, lo and bloody behold, a Navy ship on the horizon. Sam tried to count guns, but it wasn't close enough. It had more than the _Rose,_ though, and frankly, any amount was too many. He was, or had been, an English soldier, but the letter Güemes had returned to him, by which he was supposed to retain their trust by handing over as "proof" that he had intercepted Jack in time, was back on the _S._ Besides, Jack "I Hate England" Bellamy was probably not capable of pretending to like them for more than five minutes, if that, and there was also the small fact of him being an active Spanish agent – which the Navy might not know at the moment, but which would be a bad time for him if they twigged on somehow. And since Jack _had,_ however grudgingly and with however many ulterior motives, saved Sam's arse, it would not be terribly sporting to repay the favor by getting him flogged, or worse.

"Hey!" Sam hissed. "Row!"

"Row where, exactly?"

"I don't know! Away from them!"

Jack looked as if he was almost flattered that Sam thought he, one man with one set of oars, could outstrip what looked to be at least a fifth-rater under full sail, which had clearly seen them sitting right in front of it like nincompoops. Sam experienced what almost might have been a brief nostalgia for Da Souza and his scoundrels, then put it aside. "How about," he said, trying to sound authoritative. "How about you let me do the talking?"

"And why should I do that?"

"Because we both know that between the two of us, you're the one who's good at punching and shooting people, and I'm the one who's good at getting them to like me. And if you get on board and start throwing death stares and mouthing off, you will not enjoy what happens next. So yes. Just a suggestion."

"How do I know you won't – "

"You're just going to have to trust me!"

Jack snapped his mouth shut, even as Sam spotted someone hailing them from the deck of the Navy ship. He was tempted to follow that up with a remark about how Jack should not have bothered to rescue him if it was so unbelievable that he could be useful in any capacity, but restrained. The ship – they were near enough now to see that her name was probably HMS _Griffin,_ to judge from her figurehead – was closing the distance quickly, pushing swift purls of whitewater before her prow, and drew level, casting a shadow over them. Someone shouted down, a line was thrown, and since Sam was still too weak to do damn-all with it, Jack grabbed him under the armpits with one arm and the rope with the other. It was in thus undignified estate that they were winched up, dripping, to land with a thump on the deck. After hours adrift, then bobbing in a rowboat, it felt almost impossibly still and solid.

"Where did you boys come from?" The captain – at least from the trim on his coat, Sam took him for the captain, even though he was almost the same age as them, no more than early twenties – was the one to speak. He had a gravitas and self-possession, however, that made him seem much older, with cool, unrevealing blue eyes and sandy-brown hair neatly tied back. "Fishing? Out this far?"

"Drifted," Sam said. "Got caught in a tricky current, we're out of Charlestown, on Nevis. Appreciate it if you could just put us back there, sir."

The young man absorbed that without expression, though Sam saw those shrewd eyes flicker to the pile of guns in the boat, which the sailors were now hauling up after them. "Were you expecting a fight? An attack of marauding barracudas? I've heard they can be quite vicious."

"Those, ah," Sam said. "Those aren't ours."

Jack groaned. Not loudly, under his breath so that only Sam heard it, but it was definitely a groan. Git.

"And your names would be?"

"James." It was Sam's second name, he could remember it as an alias, and even he thought better of telling the truth this time. "That's my friend Richard, but we call him Dick."

"Well, I'm sure we can sort this out." The young captain inclined his head. "In the meantime, welcome aboard the _Griffin._ My name is Rogers. Captain Matthew Rogers, at your service."

* * *

Philadelphia, capital and only city of the Crown Province of Pennsylvania, was a loud, messy, muddy, busy, brimming, industrious, intimidating melting pot. Founded by William Penn as a haven for Quakers, and known for its religious tolerance and a spirit of democracy, it attracted Catholics, Jews, Mennonites, Amish, and even a Mussulman or two, as well as settlers not only from England but across Europe. It had been almost completely dependent on trade with the West Indies earlier in the century, and Emma imagined that any number of the proceeds from their pirate days had been laundered through here, via Richard and Eleanor Guthrie's family ties among the wealthy Philadelphia and Boston merchant gentry. _What happened to Eleanor, anyway?_ It was too optimistic to call their relationship that of friends, especially after Eleanor had defected to Gold's side, taken up with and subsequently illicitly married Woodes Rogers, and thus – in the ultimate irony – fallen with Nassau at the end of the war. Emma had almost wondered if they might find Eleanor living here in comfortable retirement, as since Rogers had been imprisoned for debt upon his return to England in disgrace, it seemed to ask far too much of Eleanor's relentlessly self-interested nature to expect her to suffer such privations with him. Rogers _had,_ as noted, served a much-diminished second term as governor of Nassau before his death eight years ago, but Emma had never heard anything about Eleanor returning with him. It must have been impossible to endure such daily reminders of failure, severance, downfall, and defeat, no matter how much she claimed to love him.

Old curiosity, however, was still not their most pressing concern. It had been a voyage of about three days from Charlestown after David acquired them a ship, and they had to put at least a cursory effort into finding the mysterious item that Gideon Murray wanted them to retrieve, while also putting a notice in the newspapers about Killian's disappearance. Such things were not uncommon, especially for separated families trying to reunite after their arrival in the New World or remittance from indenture, but they obviously could not advertise his true identity or anything that might tip Gideon – or someone else – off about who they really were. Gideon himself had warned them that if they were not back in Charlestown by All Hallows' Eve at the latest, they would find out just how far his reach extended. Wherever they thought they could hide from him, they couldn't.

This had been cause for further extensive profanity from Flint, who doubtless would have killed the governor and sacked the city all over again as his preferred method of fixing the mess, and it could have been a bluff. But with Killian's safety at stake, they did not have the luxury of calling it. So here they were, with unclear instructions, more than a little anxiety, and a very short time to think their way out of the closing jaws of the trap. Emma also did not want to endanger Henry by telling him the full truth, but Flint – himself generally no supporter of telling anyone anything – nonetheless thought that Henry would be in more danger if he didn't know. If Miranda was going to be staying at the Swan household with Violet and the children, Flint was not in the mood for avoidable risks.

The four of them – Emma, David, Flint, and Miranda – bedraggled and weary, made their way up the docks and hired a carriage to take them to Mr. Franklin's, since if Henry was in Philadelphia, that was where they would find him. However, the city streets were notoriously bad, choked with rubbish, animal carcasses, and sloughs of reeking mud, and they spent half an hour moving ten feet behind a lumbering wagon overloaded with precariously balanced barrels. Flint looked as if he was wound to the brink of total explosion, trapped in this miserable shithole due to a man who had now reached the top of his most-hated list – not a comfortable place to be if you intended on staying alive for any length of time. Even Miranda did not have much to say to ameliorate the situation, and when they finally pulled up – B. FRANKLIN, PUBLISHER & PRINTER, EST.1728 painted in handsome copperplate lettering on the sign – Flint jumped down like a lion escaping the Spanish royal menagerie and determined to eat one of the king of England's men-at-arms (as, he had once informed them, happened in 1287). "If Henry's not here, Franklin better put in the fucking notice anyway, or I'll – "

"Burn the place down?" Miranda took her husband's offered hand and stepped out of the carriage with a pained grimace. "You'd cripple the entire newspaper circulation in the Colonies if you did. James, for pity's sake, try at least once to refrain."

Flint looked as if he was mulling a retort in the vein that he had refrained thus far to the point of possibly damaging his health, but decided that no good could come of further matrimonial salvos. He stepped in front of David to offer his hand to Emma as well, tossed a few silvers to the carriage driver, then glared him off down the street. "Fine. Let's get this over with."

A brass bell over the door jangled brightly as they stepped inside. The place had a distinct air of the eccentric genius about it, as Mr. Franklin was known to have diverse and occasionally alarming scientific interests – from adventurously testing the energy of storms to taking the air (which was to say, in the nude) to purge toxins from the body. Emma did hope that on this instance he was wearing clothes, as she did not think that any of them were quite prepared to be confronted by the gentleman in his altogether, distinguished though his investigations doubtless were. They knew Franklin tangentially, as he was the uncle of the Hunt children who were family friends, and he and Killian kept up an occasional correspondence over items of obscure scholarly miscellanea. Still, it would be easier to explain what was going on if Henry was here.

"Hello?" Emma called. "Mr. Franklin?"

There was a rustle from the back, a shiver of the calico curtain that hung to shield the entrance to the inventor's inner sanctum, and then – more wonderfully than she could recall any other stroke of fortune being in a while – her eldest son emerged, tousled and ink-stained, hair standing up in thick brown fistfuls. At the sight of them, his jaw dropped. _"Mum?_ Granny? Grandpa? What on _earth –_ I had no idea, what the – _what_ are you doing here?"

"It's a bloody long story." Emma hurried over to the counter gate, which Henry unlatched and stepped through, almost tripping in his haste to hug her. He clapped his grandfather on the shoulder, kissed his grandmother, and shook hands with David Nolan, still clearly completely baffled. Once the greetings were through, Emma said, "Is there somewhere we could talk?"

"I'm not off work until six o'clock – or whenever Ben is back, he's on some errand or other." Cottoning onto a rather noteworthy absence, Henry frowned. "Where's Killian?"

"That, ah." Emma swallowed. "That's partly why we need to talk."

"Is he all right?"

"I hope so. I – I don't know where he is."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm holding up." Emma mustered a smile. "I'll feel better when we have a lead or two."

"Where's Jenny, then?" Henry looked around as if in expectation of his younger half-siblings. "Sam?"

"That," Emma said, ignoring a low growl from Flint at the reminder, "is also a long story."

Henry looked unsure what to think about the fact that they had somehow managed to misplace half the family, but also decided that this was not the time for further questions. Instead, they had to wait, perching on rickety chairs off which piles of book bindings or unstitched galleys had been hastily shifted, as Henry finished inking the unwieldy rolls, checked proofs and muffled curses whenever the heavy type tray slipped, as if reminding himself that his mother was watching. They eventually heard a bell sound six o'clock, at which point Flint became very involved in staring evilly at the door, as if deducting every minute that Franklin was late from his personal estimation of the man. It was nearly half-past, and Flint's fingers were tapping in a dangerous way on his thigh, when the bell jangled again and the master of the house blew in, holding onto his hat. Benjamin Franklin was a man of unassuming stature, thin brown hair tidied in a queue and round spectacles perched on his nose. "Henry, did you finish that batch for next week's – " At that, he caught sight of his unexpected guests. "Goodness gracious, who are you?"

"Mr. Franklin." Emma got quickly to her feet. "Excuse the intrusion. I'm Emma Jones, Henry's mother, and – "

"Ah, yes, yes, Captain Jones' wife." Franklin, not a man to forget details, however small, eyed her shrewdly. "Always very helpful when I need a bit of ancient Greek or Latin translated, is your husband. Is he here?"

"I'm afraid he's not, and it's complicated. May I present Captain David Nolan, late of the Royal Navy, and my parents, James and Miranda McGraw?"

"Charmed, charmed." Franklin shook hands vigorously with the men, and bowed low over Miranda's with a kiss – he was known to have a certain reputation as a connoisseur of women, especially older ones, and Miranda was still possessed of a stately, silver-haired beauty, her quiet dignity only enhanced by advancing years. Possibly sensing, however, that this was substantially worsening Flint's already suspect opinion of him, Franklin quickly straightened up. "How may I be of assistance this evening, then?"

"Is it safe to speak in confidence here?"

Franklin blinked. "Aye – the only other person with a key to the premises is John, my other shop assistant. A Negro, actually, but most clever. He's not on until tomorrow, so –"

"A Negro?" Flint interrupted. "A free man, or a slave?"

"He is – " Franklin blinked again, as if attempting to recall what, exactly, business of Flint's it was. "He _was_ a slave, I admit, but when Henry took up his post, he said that he could not work with slaves, only free men paid an honest wage. It has cut into the profits, but it is true that the subject of slavery is a vexed one, and one on which I have not yet ordered my thinking, so – "

Flint shot a fiercely proud look at his eldest grandchild, then turned back to Franklin with a scathing one. "A man as smart as you, and you're still struggling over the morality of whether it's right to hold other men in chattel bondage? Killian must not have known that, or he would never have patiently translated all those bits of antiquarian rubbish you sent him. Are there any other dilemmas on which we can assist the diligent advancing of your genius, Mr. Franklin?"

Both Emma and Miranda gave him warning looks, while not going so far as to rebuke him outright – this was, after all, a subject on which their family held strong and non-negotiable positions, and they were both also proud of Henry for standing his ground. Still, though, they did need Franklin's help, and as Miranda took care of backing Flint down, Emma began to explain the lamentable situation in which they found themselves. Franklin listened gravely, clucked over the scandal of honest and law-abiding (at least nowadays ) citizens being so arbitrarily wronged by unknown miscreants, and promised to compose a notice for distribution amongst his weeklies and the next printing of _Poor Richard's._ Emma had not told him all the details of the agreement in which they found themselves entrapped with Lord Murray, but enough to make it clear that this was a delicate matter, and undue notice from agents of the Crown was best avoided. The alacrity with which Franklin agreed made her suspect that he had some prior experience with this, which might have improved Flint's opinion of him by half an inch. He fetched quill and paper, scribbled out a preliminary draft, had them review and suggest changes, and put it in a drawer to be set and inked at the earliest convenience tomorrow.

By now it was well past dusk, the city watchman was loudly rapping on the front door of the print shop to warn them that they should be shut up and on their way home if they wanted to avoid difficulties after curfew, and they were obliged to call a halt for the night. Franklin closed and locked the shop, then – doffing his hat at Emma and Miranda – set off for his place of residence around the corner, while Henry, noting that the hire carriages likewise went home at nightfall, asked if they would mind walking to his. It had already been a very long day, and everyone was very tired, but there was hardly another option, so they agreed.

After a brisk stroll of about fifteen minutes, they turned down a narrow lane that did not smell quite so fragrantly as the others, lined with plain, respectable slate rowhouses, stained with soot smoke and dimly lit by a streetlamp – this was struck by a deft-fingered boy in rags, who shimmied up the pole like a monkey, conjured a spark, and set it to burn the oil wick inside the isinglass lantern. Henry led them up the steps of the house third to the left, knocked and let them in, and called, "Violet? We have company."

Someone answered from the back of the house just as Henry's eight-year-old son, Richard, came running at the sound of his father's voice, clearly wondering what on earth had taken him so long to get home from work. At the sight of the four adults, however, he skidded to a halt. He _had_ met his grandparents before, but only as a very small child, and he of course did not know David at all, so Henry ruffled his hair and made introductions. Both Emma and Miranda were charmed (if also alarmed) when Richard asked what he should call the latter, if the former was already "Grandma." Flint would definitely never swallow "Great-Grandpa," and that sounded rather elderly even for Miranda's tastes, so they decided on "Grandma Emma," "Granny Miranda," and "Grandpa," which Flint could accept as it was what he was used to being called anyway. Nomenclatorial difficulties sorted out, they proceeded into the kitchen (Emma was already wondering how Henry proposed to fit them all, as the house wasn't _that_ large) and Violet Swan looked up with a start. "I didn't realize it was so late, Henry, or I'd have been much more worried. Why didn't you – oh my."

"Er. Hello." Emma smiled awkwardly at her daughter-in-law. "We've also interrupted you with company. I apologize."

This was true, given that Violet had been sitting at the kitchen table with another young woman, who had thick brown curls, lively brown eyes, freckles, and a sparklingly beautiful, dimpled smile, which she flashed in equal embarrassment as she tried to tug her skirt loose. "You seem to have your hands full, Violet. I'll get out of your way. Where have the girls run off to?"

"Upstairs, I'm sure." Violet elbowed through the unexpected throng in her kitchen, stuck her head into the hall, and shouted, "Cecilia! Lucy!"

"We didn't mean to break off your visit," Emma said apologetically to Violet's guest. "I'm sure you can stay, if you – "

"Oh no, it's all right, we've been here for hours anyway." The young woman rolled her eyes, but smiled again. "Cecilia, my niece, she and Lucy became dearest friends as soon as the Swans moved here, so Violet and I have been getting together to chat and let the girls play. We live just down the lane, actually. Will you be here long?"

"I've no idea," Emma confessed. "I'm Emma Jones, Henry's mother."

"Family visit? That's lovely. I'm Charlotte Bell, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"And you." Emma smiled at Charlotte, liking her already, and feeling it a good thing that Violet and Lucy had quickly made female friends in a new city – they must have only been in Philadelphia for a matter of weeks, and while Henry had the printshop and Richard had the local grammar school as an opportunity to meet people, it was harder (as everything in the world was) for women. "Have you lived here long?"

"Oh, not that long." Charlotte waved a hand. "It's good for us to get out as well. And I should – ah, young lady, it's time to go."

Emma glanced down to see two little girls – her granddaughter Lucy, who was five, and another one a year or two older – make their way shyly through the crush of strangers. Emma had heard Violet call the name "Cecilia," so she supposed that was who this one was. She also noticed that the child was of mixed race, with a fine, light-brown complexion and springy dark curls that had been wrested back and tied with a pink ribbon. Life as a mulatto or a mestizo was sometimes more difficult than life as a Negro or Indian, since in that case at least you had a community of others like you. A "half-breed" was too tainted by color for polite society, and regarded warily among their mother's folk (as it was invariably their mother, their father being a white man) for their ties to the overseers and invaders. Sensing Emma's look, and clearly mistaking it for the genteel disdain which must greet Cecilia's appearance elsewhere, Charlotte put a protective hand on her niece's head, drawing her close. "Aye, Ceci, it's past time for us to be leaving."

"She is a beautiful child," Emma said, anxious to atone if she had given inadvertent offense. "I'm thrilled that Lucy's found a playmate. You're welcome back any time – if Violet agrees, of course."

Charlotte studied her face, as she must have heard any number of those uttered insincerely for the sake of polite appearances, and which were never intended to be accepted. But she must have seen something genuine in Emma's, as the tension in her shoulders relaxed fractionally. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Too late for a woman and a child to be out alone." David Nolan cleared his throat. "With your permission, Miss – Mrs.? – Bell, I'll walk you and Cecilia home."

"If you don't mind." Charlotte looked surprised, but appreciative. "Time does fly when one is having fun. Violet, I'll call by once everything is sorted out. Come along, Ceci."

With that, they departed, with David striding chivalrously alongside to guard them from any lurking midnight malefactors in Philadelphia's streets (well, not midnight, but you know). Violet rearranged a considerable quantity of the kitchen and parlor in search of enough chairs for everyone, they crowded up to the table as she put supper on, and the children kept looking very hopeful that the unexpected arrival of their grandparents would result in candy or other treats. Henry explained the whole sorry saga to his wife so that Emma did not have to do it again, and Richard frowned. "Someone snatched Grandpa Killian?"

"We think so." Emma had wondered if they should discuss this in front of him and Lucy, but if they were going to be here for any length of time, it was better to have it out in the open. "We're here to see if your father and Mr. Franklin can help us find him."

"I want to help too."

"That's very kind of you, sweetheart, but I think your parents might have something to say about that." And yet, however symbolic an eight-year-old boy's offer of assistance was, Emma could not help but be heartened by it. It was another reminder how wrong the whispering ghosts of Charlestown were – she was not alone, she had a large, messy, multi-generational, and often ginger and cantankerous family that loved her and Killian dearly, and would pull together as one until they found him (and for that matter, Sam). It was a gift she would never quite get used to, nor entirely take for granted either.

David returned soon thereafter, and they ate dinner and talked of fairly inconsequential matters – Lucy having decided that she wanted to sit on Flint's lap, and Flint making a show of grumbling, but not having bothered to actually move her – until the hall clock struck nine and the children, who had already been allowed to stay up late, were no longer able to hide their yawns. They were taken off and put to bed, though disappointed to miss the fun, and finally, when it was just the adults, Emma said quietly, "Well. We should open that letter Lord Murray gave us. We need to start working out what he sent us for, and why."

David went to get it out of his cloak, broke the handsome gold-wax seal, and unfolded the paper. They craned over it, as if expecting some mystical revelation, or at least the semblance of a clear instruction. But the only thing scribbled on it was an emblem – a white rose – and what appeared to be an address. If Gideon had meant to send them off with a final cryptic fuck-you, he had indubitably succeeded.

"What's this?" Emma had really been hoping for something a bit more tangible, but it niggled at something in the back of her head. Something about the décor of the governor's mansion. Blue and gold – and white roses. She'd thought it was just an innocuous design touch, but –

Then it hit her, and she looked up at Flint and Miranda with a start. The three of them had made a visit to Jamaica, long ago, to approach Thomas' cousin, Lord Archibald Hamilton – at the time the governor, but also a man in the habit of handsomely paying off pirates. Flint had speculated that Lord Archibald was trying to create a shadow Navy capable of challenging the real one, in service of his traitorous political ambitions. But that had been over for years now, the brief uprising decisively crushed at the battle of Sheriffmuir and the ringleaders executed. The Hanovers had been on the throne for almost thirty years. Surely this was the very embodiment of a hopeless cause. But if it wasn't, if they still thought they were trying again –

"Oh, bloody hell," Emma said, feeling another pang of missing her husband as she did. "I think he's a Jacobite."


	9. IX

Liam was stirred from a murky, circular, maddening dream by the sound of skittering. Peeling one eye open and promptly wanting to shut it again and die – he was in enough pain in the mornings when he slept in a featherbed, so spending the last week on hard, damp stone had just about done him in – he managed to catch a glimpse of the latest luxury of the Bristol city gaol: a brown rat as long as his forearm, perched near his foot and sniffing about in hope of food. Liam, with all the time he had spent on ships, was no stranger to rats, but it had been a long time since he'd had to deal with them on a regular basis, and he hated the diseased buggers anyway. With a cry of revulsion, he kicked out at it, causing it to speed through a hole in the stones to whatever nest of its brethren vermin awaited it, and sat up straight, sleepiness suddenly evaporated at the prospect of more of them lurking about. This correspondingly caused his back to hate him even more than it customarily did, and he caught short, grimacing and swearing under his breath.

The commotion had roused young Jim Hawkins, who was bedded down on some moldy old grain sacks across the way, and he squinted around with the expression of someone who was still hoping, despite the six days and counting in their current predicament, that he would wake up and discover it had just been a bad dream. "Eh? Whazit?"

"Sorry. Rat." Liam supposed it was a mercy that it was August, though English summers were not by anyone's standards terribly warm, otherwise the two of them would have frozen solid down here. No wonder nearly as many prisoners died awaiting sentence as they did on the gallows, which was another thought best done away with. Liam felt horrendously guilty for getting Jim into this with him, but the fact remained that it was not – for bloody once – his fault. He had no notion who had set the Benbow on fire or why Sarah had accused him of it, though he thought darkly that he could guess, and he kept waiting for Lady Murray, with or without Billy Bones, to appear and make them (or at least Liam) choose between assisting her or rotting in this miserable shithole forever. Jesus. It had been weeks since he vanished from Paris, and Regina had to be tearing the place apart looking for him; she knew it was not in his nature to indiscriminately disappear. She might have marched into King Louis' very privy closet at Versailles to demand answers, a mental image that summoned a grim smile to Liam's lips. Much as her techniques might sometimes lack in refinement or concern for other people's feelings, his wife did know how to get things done. It was one of the things he loved about her.

However, even if Regina did somehow follow the Ariadne's-thread to find him in Bristol, it would not be nearly as soon as Liam needed her to do it. The constables had been by last evening to smugly inform him and Jim that they were to be tried on the morrow, and it was reasonably plain that any other verdict apart from "cleared of all charges" would see them taking the infamous walk up the wooden steps before the baying crowd, a hooded man waiting at the top. Nobody would shed any tears on Jim's account, by the sound of things, and while his mother would doubtless plead for her son's life, one widow whose house and livelihood had just burned to the ground did not possess outstanding political influence. Even if she could save Jim or arrive at a plea deal, however, this would involve convicting Liam. She had accused him of the crime in front of half of Bristol, and the crowd had to see _someone_ punished for it, whether or not he was, strictly speaking, guilty of it. Civic order and public peace of mind demanded no less.

"Thought you were those bastards," Jim said now, sitting up and tying his hair back in a tangled ponytail. "When they come for us, you think there's any chance of fighting our way out?"

Liam's heart clenched, as he could not help but hearing, and seeing, more than a passing resemblance to the young Killian. That was exactly what his brother at the same age would have suggested, and with the same disregard for the odds or the likelihood that it would just get them into more trouble as a result. "I'm not sure that would do us much good."

"We could try." Jim's grey eyes blazed. "Better than sitting here like rats ourselves and waiting meekly to be paraded to a hot courtroom where they would jeer and throw rubbish at us and whisper behind their hands. I'm not going to be condemned to hang by some prick in a powdered wig, and I doubt you will either."

"Look, lad, we have to think about this." Liam coughed, which felt like a hot knife between his ribs. "I agree that getting to trial might already be too late for us, but we can't just up and try to stage some improbable escape without a solid plan as to how – "

It was clear from Jim's face that he thought they very much could, but just then, they were interrupted by the sound of echoing footsteps in the corridor outside the cell. They tensed, turning to look, and it was then that, at last, the terrible twosome made their long-awaited reappearance. Lady Fiona was dressed for visiting, never mind that it was to a filthy dungeon, and Billy looked as stubborn and glowering as ever, though he had made some attempt to trim his beard. He stood almost a head and a half taller than his companion, towering like a silent colossus behind her, as she strode up to the bars and clapped her gloved hands. _"Well._ This really is quite ghastly, isn't it?"

"Aye." Liam did not feel in the least reprieved, or relieved that he had correctly predicted her intervention. "Though it was nicer before you arrived."

"You know that's no way to speak to someone who has been ceaselessly laboring on your behalf, don't you? I would have come sooner, but I've spent the last several days trying to sort out this regrettable misunderstanding with the authorities. None of us want the spectacle and risk of a trial, do we? _We_ know you haven't done anything wrong, but it _might_ be hard to convince the bloodthirsty masses, mightn't it?" She giggled girlishly, which set Liam's teeth further on edge – Good God, he loathed this woman. "They will have their pound of flesh. But if you could avoid it. . . you'd want that, wouldn't you?"

"You have the blue bleeding fucking _hell_ of a lot of nerve," Liam said, "to come down here and propose that I take your bargain if I want to avoid hanging for your crime. As if it isn't damn well obvious who actually burned down the Benbow. I don't know how you bamboozled Sarah into lying for you, but I intend to find out."

Lady Fiona giggled again, but her teeth were bared, her eyes flat and black as river stones. "I think you will find that very difficult to prove, Captain. Especially after I promised the city such a useful amount of money to rebuild the poor old place and compensate everyone, Mrs. Hawkins especially, affected by the tragedy."

"So pay her. Don't just toy with her like a cat with a mouse."

"Oh you see, Captain, I do so very much want to, but it is that precise matter in which I need your assistance. From where might I acquire that money?"

"Let me guess. Skeleton Island?"

"Indeed. So I can't make amends for this sad accident, from the goodness of my heart, unless you help me to do it. Unless, that is, you wish to deprive your old friend's widow and son. Such a pity, after Hawkins died in your service."

Liam flinched. He did not know how much Lady Fiona knew about the circumstances of James Hawkins senior's death, and could see absolutely no good to come of her finding out. Likewise, he had considered once or twice that he should really tell the truth to Jim, but he shrank at the prospect. From the days in which Liam had committed his first unforgivable sin in this city for his brother's sake, he had hoped to bury the bodies deep, and no matter how spectacularly that had subsequently blown up in his face during the Jones brothers' confrontation and downfall on Antigua with Gold, Plouton, James Nolan, and Jennings, he could not quite bring himself to it. Besides, for better or worse, Liam Jones' first priority, his integral inclination, his heart and soul and purpose for living, had always been to protect Killian. Killian was not here and could not defend or explain the action of killing Hawkins, even when the man had been in arms and in mutiny against him, and so Liam was not about to divulge it behind his back. Even after so long living apart, in different countries and in different families – Killian with his large, loving pirate clan, Liam and Regina with only each other, as she had deliberately rendered herself barren long ago and there had been no more children since Henry and Geneva had returned with their parents – he could no more do differently than he could walk on his hands, or breathe water, or fly.

A vision of Jennings swam before Liam's eyes, as it did every so often. _You're just like me, you know. Now you're even getting to the place of admitting it. You may have killed me, Jones, but I will never die. How can I, when I live on every day in you?_

"Well?" Lady Fiona smiled sweetly. "You _could_ drag young Jim to trial with you, though that would be such a further cruelty to his poor mother. Or – "

"Don't listen to her," Jim said. "We can outsmart a trial."

 _No, lad. We can't._ Not when she had already informed them that she had bought off the entire jury, with the very money she expected Liam to help her fetch. Jim knew that they were in trouble, but it had not connected to an actual understanding of how loaded the dice were. He thought that presenting convincing evidence to the contrary would logically change men's minds, rather than entrenching them still more firmly in their beliefs, evidence be damned. Liam had too long and bitter experience with the mood of a mob to put false and feeble hope in such a deliverance. And he had to get them out of here somehow. That was his job and always had been, no matter how much of his soul it cost. _Can't be much left by now anyway._

"Very well," he said loathingly. "I agree to help you, and you conjure up a plea deal from your puppet jury. They release Jim with no charges."

Jim looked at him in startlement; they had forged an unavoidable rough solidarity due to being stuck in a small cell together for a week, but that was a long way from agreeing to take the fall for both of them. "Captain Jones – "

"Come now, don't you want to be free?" Lady Fiona looked at him with those bright snake eyes. "It's a very gallant offer he's making, and between you and me, he does rather owe it to your family. All this time with just the two of you, and he hasn't told you the truth about your father's death?"

The air seemed to turn as cold as December. Jim looked blank, then suspicious, then angry. "My father died fighting pirates in the Caribbean. I already know – "

"Did you ever learn _which_ pirates? And why?" Lady Fiona turned back to Liam with an expression of mock concern. "Oh no. You haven't told him. How dreadful."

"Tell me what?" Jim's voice abruptly caught in a boyish crack. "Tell me what?"

"Why, about the reason you grew up without a father." Lady Fiona's eyes sparkled more madly and mercilessly than ever. "Don't you want to know?"

Jim looked between her and Liam, as if expecting and half-hoping that this was just another flat-out lie. It took him only one glance at Liam's face, however, to see that this at least she was not making up. "What do you know about my father's death? What happened?"

"Why," Lady Fiona said. "That none other than – "

"I killed him." Liam did not even form the thought or the words consciously, just knew that they were rushing out of him with no ability to be checked or called back. "I. . . should have told you. I killed your father. It was a terrible situation, he rallied the men still loyal to the Navy after K – after we went over into piracy. I faced him in battle, and I. . . I did what was before me. I have never forgotten it."

In truth, Liam had been far away from the battle of Nassau wherein all of this had happened, convalescing on the Maroons' island after he had been stabbed by his younger half-brother. It struck him suddenly that Billy – who had been aboard the _Walrus_ and fighting with the others, including Emma, Killian, and Flint, that whole time – knew bloody well that Liam had not killed Hawkins, that he had never set foot on New Providence Island or gone over to the pirates' cause, even after Killian fell into the mad thrall of Captain Hook. Billy could open his mouth and disprove the entire story with a word.

Billy said nothing.

"You. . ." Jim, at that moment, looked exactly as Killian had that night on Antigua, when he found out what Liam had actually done to get them out of slavery. _"You_ k. . .?"

"Aye." Liam's voice scraped like gravel in his throat. "I – "

"You were his captain. His _friend._ My mother told you that the Jones brothers would always be welcome beneath her roof. She _hugged_ you. Is that why you looked like that when she did? As if you could barely breathe with the guilt?"

Liam was considerably impressed with Jim's perceptiveness, though he had absolutely no idea how to respond. This seemed, at least, a perversely fitting venue for such a false confession, already imprisoned for a crime he had not committed. "I'm a coward, lad. I know that about myself by now. I have. . . I have no excuses."

Jim stared at him with the stunned, speechless mask of a boy who had grown up without a father, the very look Liam had seen in Killian's eyes every day. Finally, very quietly, he said, "Get out."

"Jim – "

"I'd rather rot here forever than accept my freedom as a favor from you. Who knows. Maybe you did burn down the Benbow – old habits and all that?" Jim's lip curled. "Though whatever happens to you, I think we can safely say you deserve it."

Liam concurred. He had, he always had, knew it perhaps even more unshakably than Killian and his long-ingrained self hatred. But before he could remotely concoct what to say, Lady Fiona jerked her head, and a few of the prison orderlies appeared to unlock the cell and haul Liam and Jim out. Jim was marched off in one direction, while Liam's wrists were put into irons and he was conducted down a low stone corridor smelling of damp and lined with unlit torches, through a blaze of pale sunlight, and into the narrow, stuffy office on the far side. A magistrate's clerk squinted down at him, recorded his statement, and informed Lady Fiona that it would be duly passed along to the relevant individuals, and Liam himself was issued with a warning. Now that his bail and asylum from persecution were a matter of public record, and since Lady Fiona accordingly had actual documents to call in against him if he should flout her again, it would be extremely unwise to do so. She was tightening her grip on him, weaving him into multiple strands of the spiderweb, not counting on any one thread of guilt or deception or blackmail alone to bind him to her, but instead using as many as she could, making it harder and harder for him to think of escape. _This woman is as dangerous as Jennings was, if not more. I'll have to kill her too, if it's even possible._ He had ended one demon; asking to be so fortunate as to end two felt beyond a lifetime's worth of luck. _Then they can both bloody haunt me together._

Once Lady Fiona had gone, presumably to ensure that her cooked books were settled, and left them together to wait, Liam glanced over at Billy. Whatever the other man thought he was holding over him, Liam wanted it out now. "Why didn't you tell Jim I was lying?"

Billy grunted. "You want to incriminate yourself, who was I to stop you?"

"Unless you're waiting for the moment when you can? Reveal the truth, position yourself as the beacon of it, and prove whatever bloody point you're trying to make with all this?"

"You know." Billy looked grimly amused. "Time was, I thought just like you, Jones. Not in terms of honor – I think we both know that's flexible, to say the least – but protection. I was so bloody dead-set to _protect_ everybody. The crew, mostly, but also Flint. We fought like cats and dogs, aye, but I still protected him, for the longest fucking time, even after he tried to kill me. Out of some misguided sense of fairness that if I was protecting the crew from him, I must also protect him from the crew. Even John Silver, headfirst up Flint's arse as he could otherwise be counted on to be, knew what he was. Then I realized, if _I'm_ the only thing holding it together, if I'm the one standing there like Atlas stopping it from crashing down and crushing them, what sort of fucking existence is that? Flint's madness drove us hither and yon, and I stood by too long. Even helped him in it. I knew what the Navy was, from Captain fucking Hume and the _Scarborough_ – but eventually, if the Navy and Woodes Rogers were the instruments that had been given to me, why not use them? I knew Flint would most likely try to cache Vane and Jennings' gold on Skeleton Island, if he intended to cache it at all. Silver was too busy profiting off being his confidante, he wasn't going to help me do what needed to be done. So yes. I went to Rogers. I told him where to go. And from that day forth, I haven't protected anyone anymore. Not once."

"So I see." Liam looked back at him, just as coolly. "So that is what this is? Revenge on Flint?"

"I intend to see him pay for his crimes finally and in full, yes."

"He has lived for almost twenty-five years away from that world, in peace, with his family. You're still bent on destroying him now?"

"If he learned about me, would he not be bent on doing the same?"

Liam was tempted to point out that this seemed a rather chicken-and-the-egg conundrum to him: nobody was about to portray James Flint as an innocent and passive victim in whatever skullduggery was afoot, but Billy had decidedly started the present difficulties, and thus far, any of Flint's actions to protect himself and his family – the exact thing that Billy was so deriding – could appear as justified defensive measures. It was that, therefore, that made Liam feel far more of a kinship to Flint than to Billy, outward appearances aside. Billy had once protected and cared for others and felt as if he had to rue and repent the day he ever had, whereas Flint had slowly learned how to do so again, to do more than just destroy and avenge, to value his loved ones and their nearly miraculous restoration to him more than his rage. They had in fact proceeded in diametrically opposite directions, and Liam – for whom it was second nature, even now, to take the blame for Killian's crime, forged in those floggings aboard ship where he gritted his teeth and counted strokes and told his little brother later that it wasn't so bad, rather than see Killian go under the lash himself – understood Flint's choices far more, and admired the strength it had taken to break the habit. _Wounds made when we are young never entirely heal._

"So," Liam said after a moment. "How exactly _did_ you learn that Flint was alive, if that was what set you off on this hunt for vengeance?"

Billy glanced at him with a twisted smile. "Oh, you'd appreciate it."

"And?"

"Do you think I'm a fucking idiot? We might be unavoidably working together, but we're not allies. I know, because you've just shown it again, that when push comes to shove, you'll _protect_ Flint and the others. So I'm not about to tell you."

"Bloody hell." Liam knew that he himself was stubborn, knew that it was perhaps his paramount character trait, but he wanted to hope, however vainly, that he had never been quite _this_ stubborn. "You're not a stupid man. You can see that Lady Murray is completely bloody insane. So how do you justify working with her, selling her whatever she wants, if it gets you closer to revenge for a quarter-century-old grudge?"

"That's the catch. I don't have to." Billy looked him dead in the eye. "As I said, you're no stranger to that yourself, so if you're asking how _you_ justify it, that's a problem for you."

"She's blackmailed me. Threatened me, forced me, used Sarah and Jim's safety as pawns, destroyed their home, removed me from mine, cut me off from my wife, and set me up to choose between being sentenced to death or taking part in her mad little trip with you. Whereas you approached and collaborated with her willingly. I'd say our positions are not _quite_ equal."

"Maybe not." Billy shrugged. "As I also said, though, you're the one who still cares about that, is twisting yourself into knots over the apparent injustice of it. You could be the most dangerous of us all if you had any sense of self-preservation, Jones, but instead you'll throw yourself away time and time again for your little brother. That's not love. That's pathetic. I spent too long throwing myself away for unworthy men before I realized that the damage could never be undone. It seems to be, however, a lesson you will never learn."

Liam's fists clenched, even as Billy tensed, shifting in preparation to block any potential swings taken at him. They stared each other down, air crackling, both of them clearly realizing that there would be a reckoning of some sort before this was over, and possibly of the sort that one of them would not walk away from. _And that is far too bloody likely to be me._ Physically, Liam and Billy were almost exactly the same age, but Billy had still been actively serving on ships and fighting and scrapping and adventuring God knew where the past decades, while Liam, with the legacy of two serious wounds and the anguished, grisly, scarring ordeal that had been his final confrontation with Jennings, had settled down in Paris and given up that life. He was not completely a decrepit old man, but he wasn't who he used to be either, and he knew that. However he was getting out of this – if he was getting out of this – it would have to be another way.

The tension was broken by the door opening, as Lady Fiona stepped inside. "Captain," she said sweetly. "You'll be happy to hear that Jim has been cleared of all charges and permitted to go home – well, wherever his mother is staying. It is, therefore, time for you to hold up your end of the bargain. Our ship has been resupplied, and we'll be leaving this evening. You'll be serving as captain."

"To Skeleton Island?"

"Eventually." Her smile remained infuriatingly coy. "We have plenty of other business to do first, but yes, we will be making our way there. Oh, and the other thing. I _do_ know where your family lives, including the little brother you are still so bafflingly devoted to protect. So. . ."

"Do you?"

"Of course." Once again, that sickening, kittenish smile. "Savannah, isn't it? Georgia?"

That, despite everything she had already done to him, rocked Liam on his heels. He had still been telling himself that this was some combination of spite, limited information, and lucky guesses, and that she didn't _actually_ know where to find them and hurt them. But hearing that comforting delusion so conclusively dispelled took all the air out of him. He had nothing left to say, no further protestations to make. He had to do whatever it took to keep her away from them, as he had with Jennings, and if this go-round killed him, well. It seemed long overdue.

"Well?" Lady Fiona said. "Ready to go, Captain?"

Liam lifted his head. "Oh," he said. "Oh, yes."

* * *

Killian continued to bang on the hatch long after he knew Geneva was gone, that she had not heard him, that he had missed whatever slim, wild, impossible chance he had ever so briefly had. Rufio's troupe of junior jackasses had duly come down to pummel him and drag him back into the darkness of the orlop deck where they had tried, more or less successfully, to contain him for the duration of the voyage. But no matter how clever they were with knots and chains and ropes and restraints, they still had not yet found one that could hold him permanently. For a while, yes, but he always worked out a way to break it in the end. That was what had allowed him to climb up when he heard them approaching another ship, planning to make a break for it if he possibly could – and then in that heart-stopping, lightning-struck moment, realizing that the ship was none other than the _Rose,_ and his daughter was the one speaking. He'd tried to shout for her, would have torn his way through wood and canvas with bare hand and stump to get to her, but the Lost Boys (as he had heard them calling themselves) were too quick on the uptake. Geneva hadn't known it was him. It hadn't been enough.

The one godforsaken useful bit of information that Killian had gleaned from the whole miserable affair, therefore, was the fact that they were bound for France. Rufio had, of course, taken great pleasure in keeping this from him, and even the boys had been careful not to mention this in his hearing. Killian did not know what was in France to the wee bastards' interest, but there was one thing in France that was very much to _his_ interest, and that was his brother. The Lost Boys might not be taking him conveniently to Paris, but it was not a total stretch of the imagination, and if so, Killian would do whatever it took to get to Liam. Liam would know what to do, he usually did. At least, he could put the wheels in motion to get word back to the rest of the family, and possibly also help kick Rufio and the world's worst nursery school's collective behinds, just for the principle of the thing. If Killian could get to Liam, it might not matter that he had missed Geneva. Indeed, he all but bloody had to. Let himself be squirrelled off to some disreputable French captivity, and his goose might be cooked for good.

Of course, this assumed that Rufio had not just been inventing some sundry destination to throw Geneva off the scent, but Killian had to hope this was not the case – for one thing, he didn't think the strutting peacock was clever enough to think that fast on his feet. Yet as assumptions were all he presently had, there was nothing for it. The trip had been one such extended fit of misery – rattling in the hold like a ballast-stone during the storm, never fed enough, obsessively working to undo whatever knot they had him in, fighting flashbacks to Captain Freeman, Captain Campbell, and Captain Silver alike, and worrying endlessly about Emma – that Killian did not care in what fashion it ended, as long as it fucking did. He had tried to keep track of time by scratching marks in the hull, one for each day, but in constant darkness, it was very hard to be sure, and he felt like something pale and spongy, a mushroom or a fungus that only grew at night. It had been a while, that was all he knew. A fortnight at least, closer to three weeks. Who knew what sort of time they were making, but it seemed good.

Killian spent the next several days, therefore, conserving his strength and lying low after the failed escape attempt – he couldn't take these brats thumping him indefinitely, especially after being fed a diet of shit and kept in the damp and dark. He was already feeling as bloody rickety as a scarecrow, and he tried to find small exercises, ways to keep himself from rotting entirely to sludge. They had, of course, confiscated his hook, but after quite a lot of searching, crawling on all threes through the hold, he found another one, with which some invention he managed to make fit into his brace. That ascertained, he took it out again and hid it, as he did not want them tipped off that he had one. No, that was a surprise best saved for the opportune moment.

He lost track of how many days it was after that, but it wasn't more than about another week and a half. Killian wondered if it had been his birthday at some point, as it seemed to be getting on in August, and felt another pang of rage at how negligently these bastards had filched him from his life – not as if he expected some fuss of a birthday to-do anyway, but it was another reminder of how quickly everything had gone four feet up. God, he missed Emma. The rest of them too, even Flint, but especially Emma.

At last, on a sultry, sweaty, late-summer morning, Killian heard the distinctive sound of gulls, the creak of chains and the hum of commerce, and knew that they had reached port. Climbing painfully to his lookout post, he spotted half-timbered houses lining a handsome stone waterfront, the Bourbon coat of arms flapping against the sunny haze, and crowded docks teeming with small fishing boats and larger traders. As this was where he and Emma had arrived when they came to France the first time after the end of the pirates' war, Killian recognized it: Le Havre, in Haute-Normandie, about a hundred miles upriver from Paris. _Same place my bloody father ran off to, after abandoning us. Where he remarried and had a new son and never_ bloody _once looked back._ At all costs, Killian did not intend to let that same fate befall him, even inadvertently. No matter what, he was going home.

Hearing the sound of feet descending the ladder, he quickly checked that his new hook was hidden, and more or less permitted a half-dozen Lost Boys to untie him and march him above deck. The first blaze of full sunlight in over a month was withering; he felt like some fell creature about to crumble to ash, squinting and shielding his face against it, as a jeering chorus of chortles echoed around him. "Not feeling quite the thing, Captain?"

"I'm feeling just fine, actually." Blinking frenzied sunspots from his dazzled eyes, Killian tried to judge when he would have the best chance of running for it. His legs were still as wobbly as buggeration, and if he made a move for it too fast, they could all dogpile him again and defeat the whole purpose. "Waiting for the big prick among all you little ones, are we?"

A few of the older ones, who grasped the double insult, glared at him, while Rufio swaggered forward. "You're still not very courteous, are you, _Hook?"_

"A lot of grown men far more terrifying – and far more competent – than you have tried to thrash me into submission, you preening twit. They failed, and since you're still almost adorably naïve enough to think that putting a man belowdecks and not feeding him every day is the worst thing you can do to him, it's no damn surprise that so did you. I'd say it's been fun, boys, but it hasn't, and frankly, I hope the lot of you die of a bloody flux. And so. . . _ta."_

As he was speaking, Killian had been edging inconspicuously toward the railing, and on the last word, he pushed up and over as hard as he could, bending his knees to absorb the impact on the quay beyond. There were startled yells from the Lost Boys – bloody _amateurs –_ as they crowded to the side to stare wildly after him. As they could not open fire in the middle of a busy port, it was just possible to hear Rufio bawling at them to get down there _now._ Doubtless his employer would be very unhappy if he let their prize catch slip the net now. Pity.

Killian sprinted flat-out up the docks, crashing into merchants like ninepins and sending a volley of fish, baskets, sacks, ropes, barrels, and other such items flying. An equal volley of furious French obscenities followed him, but at least the pandemonium (ha, see what he did there) made it extremely difficult for the Lost Boys to get through, and he dodged and weaved, grabbed a cavalry saber strapped to the saddle of an unattended horse, and would have pinched the horse as well, but that would ensure he was hanged on the spot whenever they caught up to him – horse-thievery was a capital crime everywhere. He dove around a corner, fumbled out the hook and screwed it into the brace, and turned just in time to see Rufio himself speeding up arrears with an enraged expression. He went for the sword at his own belt, yanked it free to several screams as passersby scrambled for cover, and took a vicious swing at Hook.

 _Finally._ Killian had been waiting for this moment for the entire voyage, and he did not intend to let it slip through his reduced number of fingers. He deflected Rufio's attacks with ease, flicked them aside and aside again – the boy was strong but untrained, there was mostly blunt fury and not much refined technique. If he wanted to cross blades with the very pirate he had been so disdaining, he could learn a thing or two about why the world had feared them in the first place, not just as tall tales and monster stories that an arrogant pup like him didn't believe anyway. Killian did not _want_ to kill a man in the middle of Le Havre ten minutes after his arrival, as this would add the French authorities to his currently extensive roster of enemies, but Rufio bloody well deserved it, and leaving him alive to plot more chaos in his wake might be an act of mercy, but also one of considerable foolishness. He had not done it in a long time, but it was remarkable, and unsettling, how the knack never quite left you.

Killian caught Rufio's slashing downcut on his hook, the metal tangling in screeching sparks, and slammed his sword straight between the boy's ribs with a horrible, grating squelch. In that instant, as Rufio convulsed, Killian could see shock and incomprehension in his glazing eyes, almost fear, and it struck him that this _was_ a boy, not a man. That for all his affected posture and bravado and ridiculous hair, this was no hardened criminal or ruthless killer, nothing different from any other lad at this age overinflated with a sense of his own importance. Rufio was, in fact, given or take a few months, probably the exact same age as his son Sam.

Regretting it instantly, horrified at himself, Killian jerked the sword out, as Rufio swayed and went to his knees in the dirt, clutching the ragged wound in his chest. Killian caught him as Rufio fell backwards into his arms, staring at him in mute, furious accusation. He seemed to be trying to say something, but couldn't get his tongue around the blood. He shuddered once, then died without another sound, vacant eyes reflecting the blaze of the French sun.

Killian set him down slowly, arms feeling like stone, even as he could hear shouts rapidly coming closer – more than one concerned citizen was clearly leading the port authorities in the direction of the brawl. He was almost tempted to give himself up in penance, but that would render the whole thing pointless, and he had to get out of here now. Just as two large gentlemen in brown coats, unslinging blunderbusses, tore through a curtain – "ARRÊTEZ, AU NOM DE LA LOI" – and nearly tripped over Rufio, Killian scrambled wildly to his feet and ran.

He didn't _think_ they had gotten a good look at his face, but there could not be many men corresponding to the description of "murderous fiend with hook for a hand," so as he kept up his demented obstacle course through the narrow, twisting streets, he hastily unscrewed the offending appendage and stashed it in his filthy coat again. Out here in the open air, Killian was pungently aware of the fact that he had not bathed or otherwise washed for a month, unless you counted being periodically drenched in seawater whenever the _Pan_ hit rough seas, and possibly they could just follow his stench to track him down; they wouldn't even require a bloodhound. If he could find somewhere to lie low – Rufio had been common gutter riffraff, such sorts died every day, they would put a cursory effort into finding his killer, but no more. _Aye. Common gutter riffraff, and you killed him. So what does that make you?_

Killian eyed up some of the counting and money-changing houses he passed, as such institutions were ubiquitous around a busy port that handled a good deal of international trade, but seeing as he had already started off with murder, bursting into one of those as if to burgle it would be a very bad follow-up move. Besides, they were almost surely all owned by Jews. Forced into the profession in medieval times by church restrictions forbidding Christians from it, Jews had been seized upon to do the essential economic dirty work since they (again, according to the boundless wisdom of the church) had no immortal souls to endanger with the worldly sins of mammon. Their situation was marginally improved now from how it had been then, but there were still not many jobs they could legally do, and Christian society, eager to throw stones (often literally) at the stereotype of the shifty, money-grubbing Jew while conveniently overlooking the fact that they had created it, needed no help in making trouble for them. If Killian was to barge into one of their houses, and the French constables were to find a Jew apparently sheltering a murderer, it could get messy (or rather, messier) in a hurry.

Killian, therefore, did not break stride, even though he was starting to feel a horrendous stitch in his side and other symptoms of complete physical disuse and imprisonment for a month. He couldn't keep careering about like a runaway ox-cart much longer, and even if not the Jews, he should find someone else to burden himself upon. Spotting what looked like the backside of a seedy tavern, he vaulted clumsily over the low brick wall into the courtyard, crouched down as he heard angry shouts at the head of the alley, and held his breath until they passed. Then he went to the pump, drew some water and tried to make himself look at least somewhat less like a bloodstained, mangy tramp, and when he thought he had effected some improvement (or at least wouldn't look any worse than the rest of the tavern's dubious clientele) he went around the front, pushed the door open, ducked under the crooked beam, and sauntered casually in.

He had spent time at several establishments of similar caliber, but it had been a while, and he told himself that it was his imagination that everyone was glancing at him sidelong – though surely the authorities in valiant pursuit of some assorted villain could not be an unusual occurrence in this part of town. He had no money to buy a drink, so they would probably chuck him out on his backside soon anyway, but he didn't need to stay long. Just until he could wrangle some way to hitch a ride on a cart or a riverboat heading down the Seine to Paris. Liam was going to be surprised to see him, to say the least, and this was hardly the way Killian had wanted to go about the family reunion, but he couldn't help a spark of wistful, yearning happiness at the thought of seeing his brother again. Liam might not be thrilled at the fact of his little brother already fleeing the law in France, but he, alas, would likely not be terribly surprised.

Thinking this, therefore, Killian almost did not notice the fact that one of the hooded figures at the bar looked faintly familiar. He only caught it when they turned their head, and he caught a glimpse of sleek black braids, elegantly frosted with silver, coiled and pinned up. It wasn't a _they_ , or indeed a _he –_ it was a _she,_ and one engaged in what looked to be politely threatening palaver with the scabby sea dog next to her. Killian's French was not nearly good enough to get the details, but she seemed to be trying to haggle out the use of his vessel – and then, it hit. It had been over twenty years since they'd seen each other, but he still recognized that voice.

Another lightning bolt, of a different nature, went down his back. Then he leaned forward, grabbed her sleeve, and hissed, _"Regina?"_

She spun around, saw him – and, forgivably, stared. She was too self-controlled to shriek, or otherwise give any overt evidence of shock, though her eyes went wide and her lips went thin. She surveyed his utterly disreputable estate up and down, then got to her feet, seized him by the shirt in turn, and hauled him, with impressive vigor for a small woman in her late fifties, around the dim corner and up against the hunchbacked wall. _"Killian?"_

"Aye, it's bloody me." Killian disentangled himself. He and his sister-in-law had never had a terribly warm relationship, though they tolerated each other for Liam's sake – it was not easy to forget that they had met because Regina, then a high-class brothel madam on Antigua, had hired the Jones brothers to destroy Emma, who she blamed for the death of the man she loved. But Regina _had_ grudgingly come around, taken Henry and Geneva to safety, and she and Liam had been married for many years, so Killian refrained from any other smart remarks. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"What the devil are _you_ doing here? And yes, bloody seems to be the operative word for you." Regina regarded him coolly. "There's no way you could have heard, is there?"

"Heard what?"

"Liam's missing." Her mouth went even thinner. "He's been missing for weeks, he went for breakfast one morning and never came back. I've turned Paris upside down, and the only lead I could come up with was that someone named Lady Fiona Murray was last seen with him. She's English, apparently, so I was intending to get passage over the Channel and ask a few – what?"

"Oh, bloody _hell._ " Killian had to sit down on a hogshead. He had abruptly guessed why the Lost Boys might have been charged with bringing him to France, if Lady Fiona, the other head of the hydra, had been – at least until recently – in residence here. Give him over as a plaything for her and a blackmail inducement for the rest of the family back in Charlestown, and Gideon could keep the lot of them busy, chasing their tails, while he did absolutely whatever the fuck he pleased – Killian, with his old and deeply embittered enmity against the Gold family, would be too tempting for Lady Fiona to resist. Except in paramount irony, she had already, by the sounds of things, likewise kidnapped the _other_ Jones brother from the bosom of wife and home, and thus was not available to receive her poisoned present. _Jesus bloody Christ, I hate the lot of them._

With that, Killian was tersely obligated to explain to Regina the difficulties they had encountered in Charlestown with the pestilential Murray junior, the connection to malfeasance-in-chief Robert Gold, what he had been up to the last month, and his agonizingly close shave with Geneva and the _Rose_ at sea, as his daughter had also had her arm twisted into setting sail to England in company with the one and only John Silver. Killian couldn't see all the threads just yet, but he was increasingly certain that they were drawing together in an ever more intricate web with his family, and Skeleton Island, at the center. "I wish we _had_ gotten rid of all the damn treasure, as Flint was planning, what with the trouble it looks to be causing us now!"

Regina looked as if she couldn't say that she disagreed. "So Liam was kidnapped by the mother, you by the son? They aren't – Gold isn't _alive,_ is he?"

"No," Killian said, even as it struck him that he didn't actually know – the crocodile would be in his mid-seventies by now, but would not consider that a major impediment to pursuing a colorful and varied career of evil, especially given the formidable grudge he held against the pirates for destroying his plans to re-establish the Star Chamber and take over the world. "I mean, I don't _think_ so. But Lady Fiona's his sister, as I said, and she seems even more lunatic than he was, so we don't need him to cause more than enough trouble. But Geneva's in England, or will be soon enough, and if there's any chance Lady Fiona took Liam there, that's worth trying, isn't it?"

Regina's expression flickered at the mention of her niece. She had, Killian knew, become quite attached to her during the months she had cared for her as a baby in Paris, and part of her likely would not have minded at all if Killian and Emma had never returned to resume parenthood. There was also the fact that it was, as she had already noted, as good a lead as any on the whereabouts of her husband, and no matter how unconventionally their relationship had begun – though no more than his and Emma's, Killian had to admit – he knew that Regina loved Liam deeply. It was one of the few points on which they could always find common ground.

"So," Regina said brusquely. "We just do as I was already trying to accomplish, and find passage to England? Where, London?"

"I don't know. I assume that's as good a place as any to start. There is, though, one small thing. I may, ah, I may be wanted for murder."

"Really?" Regina raised a cutting eyebrow. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"I wouldn't be chucking too many stones in that regard, love, seeing as you've murdered any number of men in your day. Just because you did it more indirectly doesn't make you less guilty. In any event, it would be unwise for me to appear on the docks until it blows over. I'm not delighted about staying in this rat's nest for any length of time, so perhaps if we could suss out more suitable accommodations – "

"With you looking like that? Not likely. A haystack is about the best you could hope for." Regina sniffed. "Haven't bathed either, have you?"

"No, unfortunately, that went by the wayside while I was being abducted, chained up, half starved, and nearly drowned. Bloody hell, I know it's in our nature to butt heads, but I also know that we both love Liam – and, I think, Geneva. So how about we both give up fighting the bit for once, and try to ride in the same direction?"

Regina studied him warily, then finally jerked her head in a nod. "Fine," she said. "We'll wait until your latest bout of felony doesn't catch up with you. Who did you kill, anyway?"

"A boy named Rufio." Killian clenched his fingers against his palm, once more feeling the sword rasp against bone. "Leader of the gang that kidnapped me."

"He deserved it, then," Regina said indifferently. "I wouldn't tie yourself into knots over it. Come on. Let's get out of here before you get me arrested too."

Killian raised an eyebrow of his own at her back, reminded himself what was at stake, and without another word, for which he felt he should be congratulated, followed her.

* * *

Jim had no idea where to go after his release from prison. His mother was almost certainly staying with his uncle at the Seven Stars, but if he went there, he would have to tell her what had happened, what he had learned, and he wasn't sure he could stand that just yet. He was still reeling. It wasn't as if he felt the grief on a personal level, since he had never known his father – _and whose bloody fault is that, then?_ – but the betrayal was of a scale he could scarcely comprehend. He felt vindicated beyond words that he'd gotten himself thrown out of the Navy and never gone back, if these were the sorts of men they elevated to command – indeed, Jim had met enough Navy officers that he shouldn't be surprised, seeing as a great deal of them seemed to have booked advance lodging in the deeper of the poet Dante's circles of hell. But still. To spend all these years thinking that your father was a hero who died bravely fighting pirates, and then discover that he had been stabbed in the back by his own captain during a failed mutiny. . . Jim could feel the blood beating in his head, against his eyes, as if it was about to burst out of every orifice in a likewise hellishly appropriate spectacle. Jesus, he wanted to hit something.

He spent a completely aimless afternoon going absolutely nowhere (no different, he thought bitterly, from the rest of his stupid joke of a life) slept under a mossy piling on one of the back quays where nobody would bother him, and spent the next day trying to screw up the courage to just go face his mother and tell her the truth. But coming on the loss of the Benbow, and throwing her hospitality to Liam back in her face, it would completely break her heart, and he did not want to return without at least something tangible to atone for all the chaos and woe he had caused her, directly or otherwise. And as much as he did not want to admit it, his thoughts kept drifting to the tantalizing specter of Skeleton Island. It was a tall tale, a fantasy. . . but Billy said it was real, that he'd been there for three years, he could go back. He, Lady Fiona, and Liam bloody Jones had doubtless already departed on that very errand, seeing as that had been the condition of Liam's emancipation from jail (maybe they'd shut him back in again when they were done), but perhaps there was a way to follow them. Not as if a single captain in Bristol would let Jim within a hundred yards of his ship, or listen to anything he had to say, so that was out. But perhaps if he just thought a bit harder. . .

Jim's restless and unhappy peregrinations were interrupted on the evening of the sixth day after his release, as he had sent a note to his mother to let her know that he was alive and free, but was setting off to make reparations – how or where, he of course had no idea, but he hoped it would ease at least some of her worrying while explaining why he couldn't come home, such as it was, just yet. He had taken to hanging around the docks in hopes of earning enough money for supper via odd jobs, and thus noticed the ship making her careful way up the river channel and into berth at the quay. She was a beauty, though obviously had been considerably battered on her voyage, and looked enough like a refitted Navy frigate that Jim squinted suspiciously. Sixth-rate, if he had to guess. The name painted on her stern was _Rose._

Intrigued for absolutely no good reason other than that he had never seen her in Bristol before, and he knew almost all the vessels that traded out of here, Jim moved closer, watching the hands throw out ropes to tie up. Once the _Rose_ was moored, four people descended the gangplank, two men and two women. Jim thought the older, blonde-haired man with a kind, gaunt face must be the captain, but the shorter, black-ponytailed one next to him, limping along on a crutch –

A brief, muted shock went through him. Billy had said to report it at once if he saw a one-legged man, a man named Silver, who he clearly considered a threat, and while of course this could easily be some _other_ one-legged man, amputees being not uncommon in the world of seafaring, Jim could not help but feel that the possibility warranted at least some inspection. The third member of the party was a Negro woman, handsome and stately, long dreadlocks tied with a colorful head cloth, but Jim's attention was immediately and then unshakably captured by the fourth, the other woman. She was about his age, with dark hair pinned up, striking green eyes, elegant cheekbones, and a cool, quiet air of command that suddenly made him reconsider if the blonde man was in fact the captain. But surely _she –_

Jim stared at them (all right, especially at her) as they made their way up to the street and appeared to be engaged in a low-level disagreement. When this was not sorted out in a few minutes, and his curiosity had by far got the best of him, he strolled up. "Evening. First time in Bristol, is it? Can I help?"

"Not the first time, no." It was the one-legged man who answered, regarding him avidly. "But it has been a while, yes. What was that place you said you father and uncle used to stay, Captain? The Benbow?"

It was difficult to say which part of this surprised Jim the most – the fact that "Captain" was directed at the young woman, the mention of her familial connections here in time gone by, or that said familial connections were, yet again, entangled with his. Still, he managed not to show it. "If it's the Benbow you're looking for, you're out of luck. It burned to the ground a fortnight ago."

"It what?"

"Trust me," Jim said grimly. "It's a long bloody story. And one that, given which, I think I'd like to know who exactly you are."

The group exchanged looks. Finally the one-legged man said, "I'm John Silver. This is my. . . this is Mistress Madi Scott. That is Thomas Hamilton, and his great-niece, Captain Geneva Jones."

That confirmed his suspicions about Silver, but this last surname was one that Jim had been hoping not to hear, especially in relation to a young woman as distracting as Geneva. He reminded himself that it was very common, and yet was about to ask, before deciding that he did not want to know; he did not want to have to dislike Geneva just yet. "Jim Hawkins."

They did not seem to take particular notice of this, which raised his hopes that this was somehow a different Jones (that father and uncle comment did not sound promising, but he ignored it). It was Geneva, however, who said, "I think that was the family that owned the Benbow, wasn't it?"

"Aye," Jim said, supposing it wasn't much good to dissemble at this point. "My mother's inn. It burned, as I said, and that's why I'm out here on the bloody docks."

Silver considered him for a long moment. Then he said abruptly, "Billy Bones have anything to do with it?"

Jim was not surprised by this question either, but he was canny enough to blink in confusion, as if he was. "Sounds vaguely familiar? But if you want to know more, I'd appreciate supper. And for that matter, a proper roof over my head."

"Nobody's taken you in from the goodness of their hearts?"

"Do you think I would be out here if they had?"

Silver smiled faintly, in acknowledgement of the point. There was something almost wry in his gaze, and quite sad, until Jim recalled that earlier comment about being back to Bristol after a very long time away. He did not think, somehow, that the circumstances of Silver's last leaving had been pleasant, or what had impelled him to do so in the first place – as if he barely had to ask the question of whether anyone had taken Jim in, because he bloody well knew they hadn't. But then, as if masking this momentary crack in his composure, he looked swiftly back at Geneva and Thomas Hamilton. "I'd say we could afford to provide the lad with bed and board in return for some information, couldn't we?"

"Easier to offer when it's not your money to spend, isn't it?" Geneva looked at him coolly. "But I suppose you're right. Mr. Hawkins, if you would care to come with us?"

"Oh – aye, sure, I could." It wasn't as if he had anything better to do, and uncertainty about the rest of them aside, he would not mind passing quite some time yet in Miss – well, Captain – Jones' company. He really did hope, however vainly, that she was not related to Liam. As they started to walk, he suggested casually, "You know, you can call me Jim."

"Where are we going, Mr. Hawkins?"

It had been worth a try. "There's the King's Arms on Broad Quay, they'll give you a fair tariff. Food's not bad, either." If he was avoiding the Seven Stars, the King's Arms was the least terrible backup option; its landlord was one of the followers of John Wesley, the itinerant evangelist and religious reformer, and felt that good deeds and social conscience, even and especially applied to such a hopeless case as Jim, was a service well-rendered to the Almighty. Even his charity, however, did not extend quite so far as putting Jim up for free indefinitely, so with no money, he had not been able to ask before. "It'll be comfortable enough, if you – what?"

"Sorry," Geneva said, exchanging a strange look with her uncle Thomas. "Only that putting the lot of us up in a lodging house called the King's Arms is. . . more than a bit ironic."

Jim sensed a story there, though he was unsure if it was wise to go digging for it, given the considerable misfortune he had already incurred by getting mixed up in the personal histories of mysterious newcomers. He led them up to Broad Quay and the King's Arms, where the landlord was (not without considerable and not-unjustified wariness, given Jim's recent track record) persuaded to accommodate them for the evening. The traveling party was weary from what had clearly been anything but an uneventful crossing, and as Geneva and Mrs. Scott went up to their room to freshen before supper, and Mr. Hamilton went to pay, Jim found himself alone with John Silver, the man that Bones had so suspected, or feared, as to warn him personally against. They sat there, trying to pretend that they were not surreptitiously stealing glances at each other, as Silver unbuckled the straps of his peg leg and eased it off with a grimace. Seeing that, and not sure what made him ask, Jim nonetheless said, "Does it hurt?"

"This?" Silver looked surprised that anyone would ever enquire into his physical comfort. "Not usually. I lost it years ago. Though sometimes, such as now, it barks up something terrible."

"How'd you lose it?"

"Ask a lot of questions, don't you?" Silver cocked his head. "Valiantly, if you like. In battle."

Given that Jim had just discovered the last story of valiant heroism in battle to be a lie, he immediately suspected that this was some dimension of shading the truth as well, but then, it was a considerably personal question to ask anyone, let alone a man he'd not yet known an hour. "I suppose I do," he said, in response to the first part of Silver's remark. "In that vein, why are you looking for Billy Bones?"

Silver regarded him shrewdly. "So you have met him, haven't you."

"Aye. Him and a few others that I could stand to not meet again, frankly. But since one of them killed my father, I'd bloody like to – "

"Who?" Silver interrupted. "Who killed your father?"

Jim was taken aback, but then, he himself had started this trend of rather nosy questions. _"Captain_ Liam Jones." He tried to keep his voice offhand, but it trembled. "My father's old commander, of all the things."

A most unusual expression crossed Silver's face. He paused, as if weighing up his words, then shook his head. "No. Liam Jones has killed other men I know – other fathers, even – but he didn't kill yours."

"What?" Jim, feeling distinctly and unhappily whip-lashed over this whole affair, stared at him in confusion and exasperation. "He confessed to me! We were in prison together, he bloody confessed to my face! How would you even – "

"I know," Silver said, "because your father died during the first battle of Nassau – the first one, between the pirates themselves and against Henry Jennings, rather than the second, against Woodes Rogers and Robert Gold – and Liam Jones never set foot on Nassau. He was recovering on an island of Maroons, traveled to Jamaica at one point, and then left for France from some no-account sandbar in the middle of the Caribbean. He never sniffed New Providence. So whatever he told you, he's lying."

"He's – " Jim was bloody tired of thinking first one thing, then another, and then another altogether. At that moment, however, he worked out how Silver and Billy must know each other, and from whence their rivalry originally stemmed. "You were on the _Walrus_ too, weren't you? Under Captain Flint?"

"Clever lad." Silver sounded genuinely impressed. "Either that, or Billy has been talking."

"Aye," Jim said. "A bit. But I figured out plenty on my own."

"Ah. Well. To make a long and tragic story short, yes, Billy and I both sailed with Flint." Silver glanced around. "I don't suppose he's still here?"

"No. Left with the others a week ago." Jim wanted to return to the previous subject, frustrating as it was. "Why the bloody hell would Liam tell me that he killed my father, if he didn't?"

"Because," Silver said enigmatically, "that is exactly what Liam Jones does. Trust me, I too have personal experience with the matter."

Jim both wanted to push for more on that, and didn't. He felt oddly relieved that Liam hadn't – at least theoretically, he was fully prepared for the story to change ten more times before tomorrow – killed his father after all, guilty for the things he had said, even with every right to say them, and wondering in despair if he'd ever actually get to the bottom of this. But since the air had been cleared, he decided that he could at least stand to ask. "Geneva, she's not Liam's daughter, is she?"

"No. His niece. His younger brother's daughter." Something flickered in Silver's eyes. "And her mother, by the way, is Flint's daughter – adopted, but still. With or without Liam, it's a rather terrifying pedigree."

"She's Captain Flint's _granddaughter?"_ Bloody hell, that _would_ be a terrifying introduction to the family, not that Jim was considering such a hypothetical scenario. "I'm taking it you don't have the same feelings about him that Billy does? Otherwise you would have taken advantage of that fact somehow. Unless you already did?"

He thought for a moment that Silver was almost offended, though in what way he wasn't sure. Then the older man said, "Her great-uncle has been vigilantly looking out for her welfare, and it was a long voyage, in more ways than one. So I'd advise – ah, Captain, Mad – Mistress Scott."

Jim started as the two women strode up to the table, looking sufficiently refreshed. Geneva had put on a light blue lawn dress and fixed her hair, tall and elegant and calmly in command, and Jim's throat went more than slightly dry as she took the chair next to him, her thigh just brushing his through her skirts. There was another chair closer to Mrs. Scott that he expected her to take, but as it was also next to Silver and this seemed to be a sticking point, she squeezed around the table to take the one on Geneva's other side. This left the open chair for Mr. Hamilton, who returned in a few more minutes and did not seem terribly pleased with the arrangements, but was clearly too much of a gentleman to utter any disdain out loud. Instead, he seated himself next to Silver after only a brief hesitation, leaving Jim to wonder just what they all disliked about the man so much. "Well," Thomas said. "Against all odds, we _have_ made it to Bristol. Mr. Hawkins, I suppose you could be so kind as to tell us what you know?"

As their supper arrived, and Jim did his best not to tear into it like a mad wolf – he hadn't really had a proper meal since the Benbow burned – he provided them with a concise and more or less comprehensive summary of the people he had met over the last fortnight, and what he could discern of their tangled skein of schemes and deceptions. At the mention of Liam, Geneva looked vastly startled. "My _uncle's_ here? He's supposed to be in Paris."

"Aye, well. He said Lady Murray snatched him." Jim supposed he could be somewhat more charitable to Liam than he would have been yesterday. "And he's not here anymore. He went with Bones and Lady Murray on their expedition. To Skeleton Island, as far as I know."

His four companions exchanged darkly significant looks. There seemed to be a definite element of "I told you so" in Silver's, which was odd – though he was wise enough not to rub it in overtly. "You've been very helpful, Jim," he said instead. "But with what they did to you and your mother, I'm guessing you don't want to sit back, wish us well, and wave us on our way?"

"No," Jim said, especially conscious of Geneva's gaze on him. "God knows there's nothing for me here, and if I've been useful, I could be again. If you're going after them, I want to come along. To this – this treasure island."

"What man wouldn't?" Silver once more looked wry. "We've only just got here, and we'll need to do a few things before we leave again. But if Bones and the rest are ahead of us, we shouldn't waste much time in following them. As young Mr. Hawkins says, there is none to spare, to set in search of a place such as that. Treasure Island."


	10. X

Emma and Miranda went to bed that night in Henry and Violet's spare room, while Flint and David took, respectively, the davenport in the sitting room and a pile of extra blankets and quilts on the sitting room floor. (Richard had gallantly offered them his eight-year-old boy-sized bed, but had to be turned down for obvious logistical reasons.) The house was quite full, and they doubtless would be tripping over each other to no end in a few more days, but there was something comforting about it as well. However, Emma was too on edge every time there was a noise in the street beyond, and kept tensely raising herself on an elbow to look, until Miranda said sleepily, "It's only a stray cat, my dear. We'll keep till morning."

"I'm sorry." Emma lay back down, feeling abashed. "It's just – I only – "

"I know." Miranda reached over the covers to take her hand. "If Thomas or James had been abducted in such a disgraceful manner, I'd be doing the same. And indeed, for all that it was accomplished in an outwardly more civilized manner, Thomas _was._ I hope he and Jenny are looking after each other. I'm sure they are, for that matter, but I can't say I'm not worried."

"Aye." Emma let out a slow breath, staring at the dark ceiling. "So. Silver and Billy alike."

"A few too many old friends for anyone's comfort, yes." Miranda shifted position, as the moonlight through the window caught silver in her hair. "I could not help but wonder if something like this might happen if we let Thomas and Jenny go to Nassau, but nor did I feel it was my place to forbid them outright. So if I could have said something and did not, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Emma turned to her. "It's not your fault."

Miranda smiled, though it did not quite reach the sadness in her eyes. "You are sweet to say so."

"At least this way we know they're still around. You don't. . ." Emma hesitated. "You don't think Silver would ever deliberately hurt Thomas and Geneva, do you?"

"Deliberately?" Miranda's expression turned odd. "Define that for me, in relation to that man, and then perhaps I can give you an answer."

This was not the most reassuring utterance in the world, and yet Emma had not much expected another one. She had never fully trusted John Silver, nor had anyone who came into contact with him; Killian bore him an especial grudge for their charged childhood history, and the outstanding mystery of his and Flint's final confrontation still cast a very long shadow. It was true that once Silver had decided that he was going to be loyal to Flint and serve as the _Walrus'_ quartermaster, he had not done it halfway, and he had done it longer than anyone would give him credit for, but the final expense had rather squandered all those accumulated savings. Emma did not think that Silver would intentionally set out to harm Flint's husband and granddaughter, but she also did not think that they were in any sense of the word safe with him. Thomas especially must be uncomfortable to confront, Silver had never been adept with emotions, and if he was feeling threatened, out of his comfort zone, and flailing to regain leverage after a perfect scheme had so quickly turned painfully personal, he – whether or not he intended it – became very dangerous. Emma both felt sorry for the man, over what could have stunted and damaged him so badly, and felt the farther away he was from everyone she cared about, the better. Not that Billy was any more appealing a prospect. They had been friends – good friends – and thus Emma knew exactly that when he made up his mind, there was absolutely no changing it. If he had decided to dedicate himself to being their enemy, there was only one way to stop him.

And now, of course. This. Whatever in damnation Gideon Murray wanted them to do with what appeared to be a secret cell of Jacobites in Philadelphia, as if they did not have enough treason on their ledgers already. They had felt it was better to visit in daylight, so Emma, Flint, David, and Henry would be along to pay a call tomorrow, and while they might not bring _quite_ as many weapons as Flint suggested, they were all, obviously, on high alert for a trap. If Gideon was a Jacobite, which it appeared at least for the moment that he was, it did not make sense for him to go to the bother of sending them to Philadelphia and _then_ killing them, when he could have done so far more easily in Charlestown – he needed their help and expertise at clandestine and less-than-legal dealings, they were too valuable assets to be disposed of out of hand. But that did not preclude any number of other sticky situations. On that note, Emma supposed that she really should sleep, but with her husband and two younger children all so far away and in such uncertain straits, it was difficult. And the other absence she felt, still. Always.

Very quietly, knowing that Miranda would be able to tell which one she meant, Emma said, "I miss Sam."

Miranda let out a long, unsteady sigh. Then she said, with a great deal expressed in only two words, "I know."

"He'd know what to do, with this situation, or with. . ." Emma trailed off, as she knew that if Sam Bellamy _was_ here, matters might be different with Flint, Miranda, and Thomas, and that felt indelicate to speak of to Miranda's face. But Emma wanted to conjure him back for a little while, and with just the two of them, there was the unspoken understanding that – with no diminishment or dishonoring of Miranda's love for Thomas and James – in some ways, Sam had been her deepest soulmate, and she must forever feel that absence on some level beyond words or flesh or anything nameable, nothing but the desolate ache of Plato's torn-in-half human creature, forever in search of its counterpart and completion. For a time, his love had been what kept Flint and Miranda sane in any number of ways, and much as she and Killian missed Sam every day, Emma knew it was different for them. For Miranda, especially. Flint was complete with her and Thomas, at peace at last, and Miranda would never want to take that from him. But since the three of them had generally agreed no longer to speak of the shadows of their past, she had had to bear Sam's ghost more or less in solitude. Flint needed to move on from that, and so Miranda had let him. _My dear, my dear, my darling dear._

After another moment, Emma said quietly, "Sometimes I think we should talk about him more. We've been grieving him so long, and holding that so close, and. . . I don't know. I feel as if it's been unfair to Sam junior. We named him for a man we loved so much, and we've only rarely told him anything about that man, and he can see how sad we all are whenever the subject comes up, of course he's felt as if he can't ask for anything else. Sam, our Sam, I don't think he'd want that for us, or for his godson. He didn't live long, aye, but he. . . he _lived._ He didn't waste any of it, anything he was given. He didn't stay in that place of sorrow and anger, even when he had every right to do so. Killian asked me to marry him after we mourned Sam, because that was what he would have wanted. I know it's fragile, I'm not saying we have to bring him into every conversation, but maybe as long as he's been gone, we've kept him even further away."

Miranda's entire body shuddered with another sigh, her eyes sparkling too bright in the moonglow. She reached up to knuckle them hard, and Emma squeezed her other hand. Finally she said, "I would never trade Thomas or James for anything, you know that. But dear God in heaven, I loved Sam. So much more than I ever told him, or anyone. I know James misses him too. But Sam and I, we. . . I loved him, I loved him, I _loved_ him. And sometimes I think that if I could burn down the world to get him back, I would."

Emma did not answer. She knew that for so long, Miranda had taken care of Flint – patiently dealing with his demons, making their home, keeping their books, sharing his bed, bandaging his wounds, giving him his brief moments of rest and respite and goodness from the long hell of his war against mankind. They loved each other fiercely, and Miranda would still do it again. But with Sam, to be the one cared for instead, to sink into his warmth and refuge and sanctuary, to be freed for a little while from the burden of holding everything together, to be openly and easily loved and worshiped and cherished rather than Flint's clumsy, damaged efforts. . . indeed, it must have been truly transcendent for Miranda, and not something that could ever be replaced. Thomas was her closest friend and steadfast companion and cherished confidante, but he was not her lover, and Miranda had lived a long time with the knowledge that simply due to who Thomas was, through no fault of either of theirs, she could not give him, as his wife, everything that he needed. She had to reckon with the fact that her husband's truest love was not her, but indeed her other husband – that that was why they shared James so equally, and he loved them both so well. Now James had both complete pieces of his soul back, but Miranda only had one. Had had two, for such a short time, with James and Sam, and then lost Sam. And she, the most selfless of women, who gave and gave and so rarely asked for anything in return, must feel unbearably selfish for, even now, still missing it so unspeakably.

Emma tightened her grip on her mother's hand. "It's all right," she whispered. Miranda had so often been the one there for her, guiding her through her own confused labyrinth of emotions, helping her to value herself and what she wanted, that she could do no less. "It's all right to miss him. To love him. To never stop. But if we can, we. . . we should try to do more. For the Sam we still have. Tell him everything about why we chose that name, and that he is just as precious to us. We owe it to him."

"We do." Miranda's voice was steady again, though a wetness still lingered on her lashes. "He's all the goodness that Sam was, all of the bravery. It's almost uncanny."

"I see him sometimes as much Sam's son as Killian's." Emma settled back on the pillows. "And Geneva is as much you three's daughter as ours, the ghost of the girl you never had. Or – "

"Aye," Miranda said. "But you are still our daughter as well, Emma. In your own right, and not just as Geneva's mother. And that is, I think, what gives me hope about all this. The world is dark and wild and cruel, but it cannot truly destroy what this family shares, deeper than blood, deeper than our very soul. We _will_ find our way home."

Emma nodded wordlessly. They lay there, listening to the night pass, watched the moon stretch softly longer on the floor. Eventually, quietly, they slept.

Everything was considerably disorganized the next morning, as Violet was flustered trying to cook breakfast for all the in-laws, and Emma went to help her while the rest of them plotted at the table. According to Henry, the address on Gideon's letter was near the waterfront, in a part of town that, to put it decorously, was where a sailor just arriving after weeks or months at sea would immediately rush to spend his wages. Taverns, winesinks, gambling dens, and of course, a brothel every other door ("What's a brothel?" Lucy asked, thus to be strategically ignored by the adults). It was thus not surprising that someone up to potential mischief would choose to locate themselves there, and as Flint noted extremely dryly, it would probably be a pleasant bout of nostalgia for Nassau. So after breakfast, Emma and the men got dressed, concealed several pistols and other useful accessories on their persons, and – braced for anything – set out.

It was a hot, sunny, sticky day, and they were soon drenched in sweat as they made their way down to the dockside vice district. This early in the morning, most of its clients from last night were still passed out, and the ones for tonight had not yet arrived. There _were_ a few drunks who tottered across their path, one of whom evidently thought that Flint was a man who owed him money. When calm and reasoned debate failed to convince him otherwise, Flint shrugged, pulled back a fist, and clocked the poor bastard into the nearest mud puddle, then stepped over him and continued on his way without breaking stride. "That," he remarked, "felt good."

Emma raised an eyebrow, though she supposed that what with Flint's recent mental state, somebody had been going to get punched eventually, and some no-account local annoyance was as good a target for it as any. Henry, who was the one who knew at least theoretically where they were going, led the way, while David pushed aside hanging clothes and wagon wheels and broken crates and other such things that cluttered the narrow alley. The red-glass lamps that signaled houses of pleasure were not lit in daytime, though they could hear the sound of women talking and laughing through the windows, and had to dodge the morning effusions being emptied from upper stories. Finally, at the end of the lane, they reached a narrow black door set back from the street by several steps and a gate. According to Henry's still-inexpert calculations, as he himself had only lived in Philadelphia for not yet a month, this was their destination.

"Of course," Flint said, eyeing it in patent skepticism. "That looks like exactly the sort of innocent, ordinary place we go in with no trouble, and then trot out again on our merry way. No trouble whatsoever."

"It does look a bit. . . well." David frowned. "I'll go first."

" _I'll_ go first." Flint pulled his heavy stagecoach pistol out of his jacket, and checked that it was loaded (as if it would be anything else) and otherwise primed for action. With the gun in one hand, he knocked with the other, then immediately dove to the side, pushing Emma and Henry against the wall with his free arm, in clear anticipation of potential fire from the curtained window above. On the other side, David had drawn his old standard-issue Royal Navy sidearm, and was waiting in similar tense expectation of trouble, but none came. Flint reached out and pushed experimentally at the door with his gun hand. It was unlocked.

Flint's scowl deepened, and he considered. Then without further ado, he pushed it open and crossed the threshold, scouting out for a moment before jerking his head for the others to follow. They did, Emma thinking it prudent to draw a gun of her own, and she reached out to stop Henry. "You stay here," she whispered. "You can't really shoot very well, and if it _is_ some trick for us, I don't want you caught in it. If so, get out, run away, warn the others."

Henry looked miffed, but could at least see the sense in this, and grudgingly consented to wait by the door. Heart pounding fast and short in her throat, gun braced on her arm, Emma edged after the dim silhouettes of David and Flint; the corridor was not lit, and once the door shut behind them, it was almost completely dark, especially after the dazzling sunlight of outside. She blinked hard to adjust her eyes, wincing as a floorboard creaked underfoot, until they reached the door at the end of the hall. Flint rapped on it with the butt of his gun, and finding it similarly unlocked, pushed it wide.

A fairly ordinary, if spare, sitting room was revealed beyond; no den of iniquity or foul dungeon stocked with torture implements. Flint raised his gun again and pointed it threateningly at a china shepherdess on the mantelpiece, prepared to blow Little Bo-peep's head off if she made one wrong move, and Emma eyed the curtains warily, half-expecting someone to leap out from behind them. Still nothing. Had they managed to call when Gideon Murray's accomplice was not home, and thus would be extremely and dangerously surprised to find two ex-pirate captains and one ex-Royal Navy one skulking heavily armed in their parlor? Was this some utterly bizarre scheme to frame them for attempted burglary? Or –

Just then, Emma heard the floorboard in the hall creak again, and the three of them were just about to whirl back to face the door when they heard it shut behind them, and the ominous thunk of a cocking hammer. "Please," a man's voice said. "Do not turn around. If you attempt to get a look at my face, I will have to shoot you."

Flint, who had been halfway through doing exactly this, froze with a visible and titanic effort of will. It was only the thought of Killian, the possibility that Gideon could and likely would give orders for him to be killed if this transaction went sideways, that allowed Emma to do the same. The three of them duly remained rooted to the spot, backs to the newcomer, though Emma could see Flint's shoulders quivering slightly with the insult of it. "Well?" he snarled at last. "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?"

"I am one of Lord Murray's friends, as no doubt you are as well." Ignoring the scathing sound this produced, the man went on, "In a moment, I will place a letter containing further instructions on the side table. It references the location of a chest that you will be asked to disinter and get to a ship, this Sunday evening. When and if you complete this successfully, we will proceed to the next stage of the plan."

"Dig up a chest and smuggle it out to a ship?" Flint couldn't help barking a laugh at that. "No fucking wonder you wanted to hire pirates, and you have the nerve to call _us_ traitors. So what's in the damn thing?"

"I hardly think that is your concern, is it? The letter contains the full instructions. Do not attempt to retrieve the chest before Sunday evening. Do I have your word that you will do so?"

Flint growled. Emma said, "Yes."

"Good. Once this is dispatched, we can return to the question of this lost island of yours and the project of retrieving – "

"Money," Flint said. "More money. That's what's in the chest. Where are you sending it – Italy?"

"As I said." Their interlocutor sounded ruffled. "I _don't_ think that's your – "

"It is Italy, isn't it? Rome, to be precise. You're sending it to 'King' James Stuart and that gormless son of his – what's his name, Charles, Prince Charles? Trying to convince them that there's enough sentiment and support – and cash – to sniff out the possibility of another Jacobite rising, after James got so thoroughly humiliated in '15. Well, a bloody lot of us did that year, but never mind. Plenty of the pirates on Nassau were Jacobites, if nothing else because they hated England's current king, but given what the Stuarts believe about divine right and absolute rule, I don't doubt they'd like it a good deal less if they actually succeeded. So are you and Lord Murray Jacobites because it's actually that important that a Catholic gets his arse back in Westminster, or for some other convenient political pretext?"

"Shut up." The man took a warning step. "I said, it isn't – "

"So if you lot can get your hands on the Skeleton Island treasure, there you are, fully funded for your war against King George." Flint almost sounded impressed. "Believe me, I support and endorse war against England with my whole heart, but as it was under Queen Anne, or at least her government, that mine started, I'm afraid I have no desire to help her disinherited half-brother and his witless offspring return in presumable glory. So really – "

"Do you want to see your son-in-law alive again or not?"

Emma shot a swift, pleading look at Flint, begging him not to further poke the bear, even if this was Flint's entire raison d'être. David, for his part, had tightened his grip on his gun as if expecting the situation to quickly degenerate. He too, however, had obeyed the order not to turn around, and Emma heard what sounded like a letter being removed from a sleeve. "If someone has finished with their present remarks, I am going to place this on the table. Count to sixty, then turn around, collect it, and leave. Complete the business on Sunday evening, and we'll talk then."

Flint was absolutely bursting to make any number of remarks, but he clearly also knew that he had pushed far enough, and while he ground his teeth, he said nothing else. There was a rustle as the man set the letter down, a creak as he retreated, and the door opened and shut as Emma counted under her breath. When she reached sixty, they turned to the letter, and Flint picked it up and ripped it unceremoniously open. It gave them another location, this in a copse of forest just north of the city, and a scribbled order for them to be there after sundown on Sunday, dig up the chest, and get it out to a ship, the _Saint Peter,_ that would be concealed down the coast in anticipation of their arrival. At this distinctly Catholic name, thus confirming Flint's hypothesis beyond a doubt, his lips went very thin. He crumpled the letter and shoved it into his pocket, then led them out.

Henry had been waiting on pins and needles for their return, clearly expecting that it would not be accomplished at all or only with considerable difficulty and a lot of gunfire, and his shoulders sagged in relief at the sight of them. "Mum, Grandpa, Captain Nolan, thank God. I thought I might have to – "

"Don't go thanking God just yet, especially not the bloody Pope." As they set off down the alley, Flint and Emma filled Henry in on the current state of things. Since they still knew nothing about Killian's whereabouts, they could not yet take the risk of not cooperating outright, but if they did this, it would permanently alter their status from "past traitors," who had hell-raised in their day but now lived lawfully and at peace, to "present traitors," actively engaged in passing money and material support to George II of Hanover's enemies. Whether or not they had been blackmailed into it did not matter. This was a very real and very dangerous Rubicon to cross, and the consequences would be just as severe if they were caught. Which meant, for their own sakes as much or more than anything, they couldn't be.

It was a silent walk home after the explanation was over, as they were all chewing over this. When they arrived back at the Swan residence, they found that Charlotte and Cecilia were once more over for a visit, with Miranda sitting on the porch watching the girls run and shout in the garden. At the sight of everyone's thunderous expressions, she started to her feet. "What is – you're not – "

Emma decided to take charge of explaining to her, which she did, and Miranda listened with a frown that grew steadily deeper. She knew as bloody well as the rest of them that this was all-out treason, and would blow apart any eventual legal defense they might later need about how their rule-breaking had been long ago. "Gideon Murray has indeed boxed us in very neatly," she said at last. "But if Killian is still in danger, I cannot recommend we ignore it."

"I know." Emma looked at her heavily. "Do you think there's any chance at all that we could – "

At that moment, there was the sound of a brief scuffle from inside the house, someone saying something sharply, and then, Flint marched onto the porch holding Charlotte Bell very firmly by the wrist, while Henry was hurrying along behind in the middle of a complaint about how Flint could not manhandle guests in his home. At the sight of the kerfuffle, Miranda said, "James, what on earth? For goodness' sake, let go of her."

"I caught her looking through our things." Flint did not relinquish his grasp. "Miss Bell, would you like to explain just what interest you have in our private papers? Are _you_ perhaps Lord Murray's point of contact in Philadelphia, ideally positioned to report on us without suspicion?"

"I don't – " Charlotte struggled, which got her nowhere. "Lord Murray? Who's Lord Murray? Why would I be spying on you?"

"Grandpa," Henry ordered. "Let go of her. Right now."

Flint paused, then slowly and individually removed his fingers from Charlotte's wrist, as if to say that if something else terrible happened next, he would not be blamed for it. Charlotte rubbed it indignantly, but as she took a step, Emma put out an arm. "I'm sorry for how he treated you, but if you _were_ looking through our papers, I'd also like an explanation."

"I. . ." Charlotte hesitated, then flushed. "I just. . . well, given who you are, and if you were here on some sort of secret errand, I thought there might be a chance to. . . never mind."

"Who we are?" Emma repeated. "Meaning?"

"Pirates." Charlotte's flush remained, but she lifted her head and met their eyes defiantly. "You know things, don't you? About fighting and – and sneaking into places, and Violet's said that Henry has an uncle in France, and I thought you might somehow be persuaded. . . I wasn't trying to spy on you, I don't know who Lord Murray is, I swear. I was just wondering if you might. . ."

"France?" Not much of this made sense to Emma, so she latched onto what did. "Yes, my husband's older brother lives in Paris. Is that of some interest to you?"

"I – I know someone in France, is all. And we've been trying to find a way to get her here for months, her father won't let her go, and – " Charlotte stopped, lip quivering. "He knows who we are, we could never get close enough ourselves. We've tried more than once, and it didn't work, and we're afraid that he'll kill her if we can't free her soon. But you're the sort of people who _could_ do that, and if there was any hope at all. . ."

Flint, Miranda, Henry, and Emma exchanged confused and unsettled looks. Charlotte did look genuinely distraught, so either she was a singularly talented actress or she truly did have nothing to do with Lord Murray, and had instead been hoping to recruit them for a possible side venture of her own. Finally Flint said, "Who's _we?"_

"Me and. . ." Charlotte hesitated. "Well, someone."

"I gathered that. You'll want to be more specific."

"Me and Jack."

"And who's Jack?"

Charlotte hesitated again. Finally she said, "It's actually Mrs. Bell."

"You're married, then? Jack's your husband?"

Charlotte's eyes darted back and forth, as if in search of a way out. Instead of answering this, she said, "I apologize for looking through your things. It was wrong of me. If you're not. . . I'll just. . . I'll just be on my way then."

"Who's this person in France who's in danger?" Trust Henry to return to the subject of a lady trapped alone in peril. "You said her father might kill her if you can't get her out? That's awful. If you give me her name, I could write to my uncle Liam and tell him to look into it. Him and my aunt Regina – especially my aunt Regina – they have a lot of connections. You should have said something sooner. Come on."

Clearly eager to escape Flint's baleful stare as much as anything, Charlotte followed him back into the house, leaving Emma and Miranda to turn recriminatory looks on Flint. "What?" he groused. "Everything that's going on, I was supposed to just stand there and let her do it?"

"There _were_ other ways, James," Miranda said. "Words, for example."

Flint snorted. Clearly, words were for chumps.

"Look," Emma put in. "I don't think Charlotte is a spy for Lord Murray, so we need to return to the problem of smuggling a chest of illicit cash out of Philadelphia on Sunday evening. I'm sure we can _do_ it, unless this is the part where we get caught and framed for treason. I do think they want the money to get out safely, but I'm less sure that includes us. Tip someone off where to wait for us when we're returning. No loose ends."

By the look on Flint's face, he had thought of the same thing. "We'll have to make sure we come back by another route. They did say that they had more work for us, though, so I'm guessing that Murray intends to get maximum value out of us before he throws us to the wolves. Assuming that Franklin keeps to his word and publishes that notice, it could allow Killian some more of a chance. I don't think he'll remain a captive for long, to be honest, but with no idea where he is, that doesn't help us very fucking much."

"Aye," Emma said. "But that's not going to happen by Sunday. We _could_ gamble that they took him out of Charlestown – the witch said the Lost Boys had him, remember? – and thus Murray couldn't have him killed immediately even if he wanted to. It would also take at last a few days from then for any word of our disobedience to make it from here to the Carolinas. But that's a terrible risk. And if we don't turn up, they could report us to someone anyway."

Flint looked utterly grim, as they were presently backed very far against the wall if they did not want to bluff, even a little, with Killian's life. Finally he said, "We could just send me to the meeting point with half a dozen pistols. I imagine I could take most of them out."

"They won't be there," Emma reminded him. "They'll bury the chest and then leave, so we dig it up only when they're gone and there's no risk of us being seen together. Unless you meant the crew of the _Saint Peter?_ We'll have already technically stolen the chest if it got that far, so shooting them would be counterproductive."

Flint clearly felt that in his opinion, any situation could be improved by shooting someone, but finally blew out an angry breath. "I could just go in advance and wait for them to arrive with the chest and shoot them then. Or we could bring Nolan, if he's going to be any use. Can't the lord sheriff of Charlestown arrest them for smuggling?"

"Perhaps in Charlestown," David said, overhearing this as he stepped outside. "And even there, my role is mostly ceremonial. I certainly don't have any jurisdiction in Philadelphia."

"Who fucking cares if you do or not? Turn up in your Navy uniform and scare the shit out of them." Flint clearly could not be arsed in the least with questions of actual legal authority. "Isn't that why you came with us? To function as a figurehead for their side of the law?"

David was charitable enough not to point out that Flint had said "their" side of the law, as that implied he still existed in opposition to it. Finally he said, "I was with you earlier, at the house. They'll know I'm working with you."

"Perhaps," Flint said. "Or perhaps you could convince them that you were only pretending to be working with us."

"Meaning?"

Flint smiled, the most grimly of all. "How good, exactly, are _your_ acting skills?"

The rest of the week was, to say the least, tense. The notice about Killian was printed in Franklin's various newspapers and set to be distributed, but there was no way to forget that they were still taking a tremendous risk in thwarting Gideon and his Jacobite cronies in the least degree. More than once, Emma was sorely tempted to call the whole plan off and just do what they had been told, but she also knew that Killian would be absolutely appalled if they all committed treason on his behalf (not because it was treason, he wouldn't give a damn about that, but for the danger it put them in) and this at least allowed some semblance of plausible deniability. That did not feel at all like enough, but nothing would.

In its basic outlines, the plan was simple. Emma and Flint would go out to the rendezvous spot early on Sunday and hide until they saw the chest arriving, and let the men bury it without revealing themselves. Then, just as the smugglers were leaving, David would ride dramatically out of the woods and put the fear of God into them, yell loudly about knowing that pirates could never be trusted, and otherwise make a vigorous effort at failing to catch Emma and Flint, who would run a bit until they were well away. Thus the transfer of the money to the _Saint Peter_ would not take place, at least not when they could be later blamed for it, and it would look as if it was David's interference that had disrupted it, not the family's disobedience. It was a considerable risk for him to take on their behalf, counting on his good-citizen cachet to protect him, and even Flint did not have anything snarky, or at least not much, to say to him as a result. The Jacobites, after all, could not report to the actual Philadelphia authorities if it meant they might get caught themselves, and Gideon was not governor here to excuse them.

As for Henry, he would be staying late at the print shop, so all the neighbors would notice the scandal of him working on the Sabbath and cluck over it, thus ensuring they could vouch that he had in fact been there and not involved in any way. Nonetheless, it was still a plan in which, at the conservative end, a hundred and one things could go wrong. As Sunday approached, everyone got increasingly nervous and distracted, which they did their best to hide from Richard and Lucy. If they used David to shield them now, that could render him useless in the future – they could not keep pulling the "curse your sudden but inevitable betrayal!" trick over and over, after all. Hence, they had to decide if this situation was really worth playing such a valuable card so early, or if the chance of a worse one in the future, where they might wish they had recourse to his upstanding reputation, meant that they should just suck this one up.

Sunday arrived muggy and overcast, with the lingering threat of a thunderstorm in the air. The hour was very early, but everyone was up, and the tension was liable to blow the roof off the house as Emma and Flint got dressed, strapped on their bandoliers, and told everyone, with no success, not to worry. They were likely to be stuck hiding for hours, so Violet gave them a sack with a plowman's lunch apiece and two canteens of water. Then, as the streamers of red-gold dawn had not yet faded from the eastern sky, they set out, both doubtless recalling the ominous second half of the seafarer's rule of thumb: _Red sky by morning, sailor take warning._

Most of Philadelphia was either still asleep or just waking for church, and they made it out of the city without being spotted or challenged. Emma supposed that this was indeed the obvious spot for Jacobites in the Colonies to congregate: with its policy of religious toleration, it was the only place that a sufficient number of Catholics could live together without attracting suspicion or unwelcome legal attention. The notoriously corrupt local administration (one man had fled the city rather than being forced to serve as mayor) must play a part as well, if you could just keep greasing enough palms to ensure their owners' blindness. The gutting of its essential West Indies trade, due to England's endless wars with Spain, had also hit Philadelphia hard, and all in all, they must be not in the least opposed to considering a possible replacement for King Geordie the Second. While this was a comforting thought, inasmuch as it suggested that they might be able to wriggle out of harsh punishment if they were caught, Emma was not putting too much stock in it. As ever, it was too convenient to make an example of a more obvious traitor to hide your own, and Guthrie fencing businesses aside, Philadelphia was no friend to the pirates.

Emma and Flint reached the spot indicated on the map a little past seven, to judge from the distant bells, and found a good hiding place where they could keep an eye on all approaches. David would be arriving on the hill below in another hour or so; they did not want to take any risk of being spotted together, and as most smugglers were not the sort to leap out of bed at first cock-crow, they likely had several hours at least to go. There was a clearing among the slender, ashy trees that looked like the obvious spot to bury something, and Flint prowled around it several times to check for disturbed earth or recent evidence of digging, but there did not appear to be any. Then he climbed the hilltop to calculate how far it was from here to the water, and just where offshore the _Saint Peter_ might be stationed, if it had even arrived yet. "Be no bloody good to just run straight into the Papist bastards, now would it?"

"No," Emma agreed. She knew that Flint didn't dislike them for being Catholic, any more than he disliked everyone generally. Killian and Liam had been baptized Catholic in Ireland, and while neither of them were at all observant, the one thing on which Killian had proven quite stubborn was his insistence on Catholic baptism for Geneva and Sam as well. Both of them had been registered at the Anglican parish in Boston, and baptized into it so they (or rather Sam) could attend the grammar school and receive a Certificate of Compliance stating their membership in the Church of England – without this document, any aspirations to a career or public life were very difficult indeed. Yet nonetheless, Killian had been adamant that his children receive the Catholic sacrament of christening as well, and gone to considerable lengths to obtain an Irish priest, a man from the Gaeltacht with a name Emma could not pronounce, to do the honors when Geneva was five and Sam was one. Presumably, this double dose of the Holy Spirit would get them to heaven one way or another. God, she missed her family.

With nothing else to do, Emma and Flint settled in for a long and sticky wait. The sun edged higher in the sky at the pace of a dead snail, and finally, past noon, the looming thunderheads finally closed in and unleashed a brief and tumultuous downpour that left both of them muddy and soaked. The air was so hot and damp that their clothes would not dry, leaving a most unpleasant impression of slowly being boiled in a pot, and Flint was in the middle of employing some choice invective to describe the situation when they heard the distinct creak of wagon wheels and the tattoo of hoofbeats coming up the hill. They dove back behind their fallen log, prayed that David was in place, and waited tersely.

In a few more minutes, a cart appeared through the trees, driven by a respectable-looking individual in a frock coat and loaded with several more. Indeed, it appeared to be nothing more than a gentlemen's society out for a post-church picnic luncheon, and Emma and Flint accordingly could not tell if these were the ones they had been waiting for or not. The men chatted and wandered about, on occasion straying dangerously close to their hiding place, and Flint had one gun out of the bandolier and held ready against his chest. Then when they had finished, the men went back to the cart, pulled something out from under the lashing, and hauled it to the center of the clearing: a stout wooden chest, double-locked with bronze tongues.

Emma's breath caught as she realized two things: one, that these were definitely the Jacobite smugglers after all, and two, their plan was completely shot to hell. They had all been so focused on the clandestine, rule-breaking aspect of this – in short, thinking like pirates – that it had never occurred to them that their enemies might not do the same. It would have been one thing for David to ride up and apprehend a bunch of scabrous ne'er-do-wells who were clearly breaking the law, but to try to arrest well-dressed, ordinary citizens on the Lord's day, who would after all have no chest as proof of any wrongdoing, was quite another. Whirling to stare at Flint, Emma realized at once that he had also seen this. "Get around there," he mouthed at her. "Find Nolan, warn him there's a problem. Hurry."

Staying low, moving as quietly as she could in the thick underbrush, Emma edged around the side of the hill, listening hard to the men digging above. Once a twig cracked loudly, and she froze, but someone had just, by the sounds of things, dropped the chest on his foot, and his heartfelt cursing covered up any noise from her. She kept moving, crawling on all fours, slipping down the steep mud bank, until she finally caught sight of David a few hundred yards away, clearly waiting for the cart to descend the path again so he could burst out and stop it. She reached up with both hands and began furiously waving.

It took a few moments, but David spotted her. They were too far apart to make out facial expressions, but Emma shook her head as hard as she could, drawing a finger vigorously across her throat. She didn't dare to shout, but she gestured at him sharply to ride away.

David was definitely frowning, even if she couldn't make it out. _You sure?_

Emma nodded, still waving for him to clear out, until at last, very slowly and glancing back at her as if waiting for her to change her mind, he lifted the reins and began to canter toward the road down into the city. He disappeared among the trees, and she watched in dry-mouthed anxiety before starting to scramble back toward Flint. If he had taken her absence as a perfect opportunity to burst out, guns blazing, and solve the problem then and there – she hadn't heard any shots or shouting, but that didn't mean –

Bent double, she monkeyed back to their hiding spot, just as the men above seemed to have nearly finished their work, and were tossing in shovelfuls of dirt over the chest. Flint was where Emma had left him, though he was looking increasingly apoplectic, and when she put a hand on his arm, he whirled and almost made a sound before biting his tongue in the nick of time. He jerked his head angrily at the smugglers, as if to ask if they were really going to let them get away scot-free, and since this obliged them to think up something else fast, Emma was not altogether sure. They heard the men put the spades back in the cart, linger a few more minutes, enjoy some of the sunshine that had once more struggled out, and then depart.

As soon as they could be quite sure that they were gone, Flint swore out loud. "Fuck. _Fuck!_ Why the fuck didn't we take that into account? Thought they'd be sneaking around in the dark like weasels – no, they left that part for us to do. Can't arrest a merry band of nice church-going neighbors out for a picnic, not even with someone as square-jawed and thumpingly self-righteous as Nolan, so – "

He stopped.

"What?" Emma said. "What?"

"It strikes me," Flint said, "that such a simple and indeed _brilliant_ thwarting of our plan works so well only if, say, someone knew that was our plan in the first place. It also strikes me that while we have been using the house as headquarters this week, Violet has taken Richard and Lucy out so they'd not be in our way. It strikes me thirdly that beyond all doubt, at least some of this time has been spent at the Bell household, and that Violet confided in such a sympathetic friend. And last, it _strikes_ me that having found us less than receptive, said friend of Violet's may have looked elsewhere for assistance in whatever venture she has in mind, and thus, finding other gentlemen with similar skill sets, may have offered them what she knew of us, in payment."

"You're not – " Emma stared at him. "You can't be saying _Charlotte_ sold us out? She – "

"I admit that she wasn't likely to have been a spy for Lord Murray before, no," Flint said darkly. "I am wondering, however, if she has not become one now. Inadvertently or otherwise."

Emma's mouth was still open, as she thought that either Flint's suspicions had gotten even more out of hand or his own treatment of Charlotte might have played a part in driving her to approach the Jacobites instead – indeed, they were the obvious next option on the list if some kind of sneaking around, outside of official channels, was needed. Clearly, Henry's letter to Liam alone was not sufficient for peace of mind, and if Charlotte had a dear friend in danger, Emma did not blame her for trying everything she could think of – after all, she was doing the same for Killian. But it did not erase the fact that this left them decidedly in a pinch, and she looked back at Flint with a worried frown. "Even if you are right, what the hell do we do?"

Flint thought for a moment. Then he said, "I'll dig up the chest, find a boat, and move it offshore to the pickup point with the _Saint Peter._ It's not worth endangering everyone over one bloody box, and if it _does_ go bad, well, at least you won't be in the way. Who knows if the fucking thing ever gets to Rome anyway, but they can't say we didn't do our part. You go straight back to the hose, reconnoiter with Nolan, and make sure there isn't any other nasty dimension of the plan of which we are unaware. I might be home tonight, or I might not, depending on – well, I may need to take the long way back, is all. It shouldn't be more than a few days."

Emma looked worriedly at him, as she obviously could not forget the fact that when Flint had last gone off on his own with a chest of treasure, and sent her away for her own safety, the "long way back" had meant almost ten years until they saw each other again, with her supposing he must be dead or marooned on Skeleton Island forever. "I – I should come too."

"No," Flint said flatly. "You shouldn't. I can handle it myself, Emma, and I'm not willing to put anyone else in danger. You need to get back to the others, that's more important. Who knows what else those bastards could have up their sleeves. Hear me?"

Emma hesitated a moment longer, then – startling both of them – she reached out and hugged him quickly. "I – " she said. "I love you."

She felt Flint stiffen in surprise – she had never actually said it out loud before – and then quickly, fiercely hug her back. He didn't answer, but he kissed her forehead, then turned her around and shoved her lightly between the shoulders. "It won't be eight years this time," he promised. "Go."

Forcing herself not to look back, Emma followed David's same path through the trees and down to the road. It was getting well on in the afternoon by now, the clouds sullenly unable to make up their mind about another rainfall, and the late-August heat was still and oppressive. Insects whined around her, and she grimaced, slapping at them, as she crossed the squashy ground on the outskirts of the city and headed in, more than ready to lie down in a cool bedroom, after a long cold drink, and have a very long nap. But as she drew close to the street where Henry and Violet lived, she heard a hubbub of raised, anxious voices, and despite her weariness, found it in her to put on another jolt of speed. Surely Charlotte would never have agreed to anything that put Violet and the children in harm's way – they were friends, unless she had not known, unless –

Emma practically sprinted around the corner, clutching a stitch in her side, and skidded to a halt at the sight of the crowd outside Henry and Violet's house. Her eyes scanned it frantically until, to her unspeakable relief, she spotted Miranda, Violet, Richard, and Lucy. Both of the children appeared to be considerably upset, being comforted by the women, as Emma fought through to them. "What's going on?" she gasped. "Are you all right?"

"Emma!" Miranda clutched her hand in abject gratitude. "I didn't know what to – if you – where's James?"

"He's fine, he had to stay behind for a while, it's a – it's a long story." Still panting, Emma looked around at all the uproar. "God's sake, what _happened?"_

"There was another one." Miranda's lips were very white. "Another assassination attempt. Only one man this time – I suppose they thought that would be more than sufficient to handle a frail old woman, an unarmed mother, and two small children. If Charlotte hadn't heard the noise and come running, I don't want to think what could have – "

"Wait." Emma felt as if the entire world was turning out from under her feet. _"Another_ assassination attempt? By the same lot who tried it in Savannah?"

"I've no notion."

"And Charlotte – Charlotte saved you?"

"Aye. She burst in with a pistol and shot the man, just as Violet was trying to fight him off with a butcher knife." Miranda reached down to gather Lucy, already hanging onto her skirts with both fists, still closer. "She's in there being questioned by the constable. David went to the print shop to inform Henry, they should be back any minute. But I didn't know – you and James, I thought you too might be – "

"Jesus _Christ."_ Lowering her voice even among the nervous chatter, Emma explained Flint's suspicion that Charlotte might have had something to do, wittingly or otherwise, with the neat domino-toppling of their plans, and where he had gone as a result. "I don't think she can possibly have had anything to do with the first attempt in Savannah, but those weren't Lord Murray's men, and I don't think he was lying about that. So why would they then try to kill us now?"

"She's not," Violet said. "Not responsible. She's my friend, she saved our _lives._ You should have seen her face, there was no way she could have feigned that, she was horrified. Don't you dare accuse her."

"I just. . ." Emma paused, as she knew that being corrected by one's mother-in-law was perpetually a delicate exercise, but still wanting more answers as soon as they could be provided. Likewise, she agreed that Charlotte would never have intentionally endangered the family, but if she had known something might be afoot and not warned them – if she could then come running so quickly because she had not shaken the feeling that something like this might happen –

At that moment, everything was interrupted by the panicked arrival of Henry, who flung himself off his horse almost before it had stopped moving, rushed to his family, and had to hug them all three times before he was satisfied that they were solid and safe. David was dismounting as well behind him, and looked almost as exhausted as Emma felt, sweat streaking tracks through the grime on his face. "Emma! Where – where's Flint?"

"Later." Emma glanced at Henry, unsure how much he knew. But after a pause, both of them made up their minds, battled through the cordon of onlookers, and marched into the house, down to the kitchen. Signs of a struggle were everywhere, things knocked askew and broken, and Emma had to fight the very cold feeling that they would never be safe again. This had all been planned with meticulous care. Wait until she, Flint, David, and Henry were gone, target the women and children – almost as if someone was watching them, keeping close tabs on their movements, and had multiple deputies in several locations to do the same. Gideon had said it was not him, at least in this, and she remembered her fear of another unknown, lurking foe. If this had been their work as well –

She and Henry emerged into the kitchen, where one of the constable's men was just hauling a body out, leaving a long smear of blood, and the constable himself was interrogating Charlotte, far from gently, as if this could not be proved to be an act of self-defense, it would carry a charge of murder. At the sight of Emma and Henry, she looked up. "Mrs. Jones, Henry, I – "

"Did you know?" Emma interrupted. _"Did you know?"_

"About what?"

"That someone was going to try – again – to kill us!"

"No." Charlotte was pale as death herself, but she held Emma's gaze bravely. "I had no idea. I grabbed my pistol and ran over when I heard crashes and screaming. I'm only lucky that I was in time."

"How does a young lady such as yourself know to fire a gun so well as to take down a full-grown man, clean in the head, from ten paces?" The constable glared at Charlotte. "Answer me that, madam!"

Charlotte winced. "Jack taught me how to handle a gun."

"Jack who, madam?"

"Jack Bell."

"Who is Jack Bell and where may I locate him?"

"He's not in Philadelphia." It was plain in her entire being that Charlotte did not want to be talking about this. "Abroad. He's a. . . a merchant. We only just moved here, he hasn't lived here, he was going to rejoin us later."

The constable glanced suspiciously at Emma and Henry. "Has she ever mentioned this man?"

"Yes," Emma said. "Only in passing. I'm not sure what their connection is."

"I can take her for more questioning if you feel it warranted, sir."

Henry paused, then shook his head. "No. She's a family friend, and she saved my grandmother, wife, and children. Let her go, we'll clear up the mess."

The constable squinted even more suspiciously, but was finally persuaded to do so. The body of the would-be assassin was loaded into an ox-cart, the looky-loos cleaned out (only with much difficulty, and Emma felt certain they'd be back) and Miranda, Violet, and the children were brought back inside with David. The children were clearly terrified of another potential attack, and Henry paused, then reached down the musket he kept on hooks above the mantelpiece – he plainly did not consider it out of the question either. "Henry," Emma said. "I'm so sorry. We should never have put you and your family in this kind of danger."

"There seems to be more than enough danger to go around." Henry spoke distractedly, concentrating on the unfamiliar process of loading the musket. "Was it them, do you think? Lord Murray's men? The Jacobites?"

"No," Emma said quietly, feeling the cold ice of certainty congeal in her stomach. "No. It was someone else."

* * *

HMS _Griffin,_ fifth-rater of the Royal Navy, in fact mounted – in case it was of interest to anyone – forty-four guns, ranging from the thirty-two-pound heavy maulers to the lighter bores for chain shot and skirmish fire, and the long nines for pursuit and capture. She could make close to twelve knots under full sail, an optimum combination of speed and power, and if Sam had any notions that they were slipping the coop easily, they had been posthaste disabused. At first he feared that Captain Rogers intended to press them – Navy vessels were always hard up for manpower, and a pair of strapping young lads like them were at a premium, especially during wartime. It would not have made any difference that he did not know how to sail, as the captives of the press-gangs rarely did; they could be of any profession or trade (though always working-class, as not even the pressers were audacious enough to snatch a nobleman) before their abrupt change of employers. Conditions had improved slightly from the generally ghastly ones in Sam's father's day, but it was still a fate that nobody would wish upon themselves.

If that was what Captain Rogers had in mind, however, he had not shown his hand. It was equally apparent that he had no intention of taking them back to Nevis and letting them sally off into the sunset, which had been a fool hope anyway. Once they were again underway, the captain turned to them and said, "So, James and Richard, was it? We have several calls to make in our patrol of the Leewards, so perhaps we can unravel something of the circumstances which brought you so infelicitously out here."

"I told you," Sam said. "We're from Charlestown. Fishing."

"Pardon me if I do not believe that." Rogers smiled. "Especially as the reason for my hasty dispatch from Antigua was due to rumors of a Spanish vessel making insulting incursions into the waters around here. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Aye," Jack said. "The vessel you're after is called the _Senaita,_ and it's Portuguese, not Spanish. Its captain, João da Souza, is, however, a Spanish spy. I know because he caused us both some difficulty while he was in the neighborhood. Last saw him making west by northwest from here, in considerable trouble with his own men."

Rogers blinked, while Sam, trying to remind Jack of the suggestion for him to do the talking, stood hard on his foot, which Jack ignored. Sam was both impressed and terrified (as was his usual wont with Jack) at how easily and cold-bloodedly Jack had sold out his former associate – clearly, whatever working arrangement existed between them had come to an emphatic end when Da Souza assisted Sam in his little swan dive overboard. But since Rogers and Jack were now both looking at him, Sam had no choice but to nod. "Aye. That's what happened, all right."

Rogers raised a sandy eyebrow. "With all those weapons in your craft, you must have expected trouble."

Jack shrugged.

"Did you intend to answer me, Richard – what is your surname, anyway?"

"Jones," Jack said. He jerked a thumb at Sam. "That's Mr. Cocker."

Having a distinct feeling that he was being paid back for the "we call him Dick" remark from earlier, Sam likewise had no choice but to swallow this, though he glared at Jack when Rogers wasn't looking. He once more tugged on his compatriot's sleeve, as he'd already sensed that this wasn't a man it was safe to provoke too much, but trust Jack, the arrogant bellend, to have missed that. Fine, if he _wanted_ to get himself flogged, that was his lookout, but Sam preferred to be spared it, thanks. "Captain Rogers," he said, clearing his throat pointedly. "We're grateful for your assistance, and well, it's true, we're not from Charlestown. I'm an English soldier, I was fighting with Governor Oglethorpe in Florida. If you wanted to send to him, he'd tell you so."

"Thank you for that, Mr. Cocker, but Governor Oglethorpe is not in Florida, nor has he been for some time. He retreated in ignominy and defeat, and it is thus the Navy's task to compensate for his failure – and hope we can still execute the next part of the war successfully." Rogers gave no hint if he counted this admission to Sam's credit or not. "And if you are an English soldier, clearly, Mr. Jones here must be as well?"

Sam was briefly confused before remembering that Jack, of course, had filched his perfectly good surname in order to stick him with the insulting one. "Yes," he said, standing even harder on Jack's foot. "Yes, he is."

"I see." Rogers considered them for a long moment, then nodded. "Then surely you will not be averse to assisting me on my present duties. I daresay Oglethorpe can get along without one man for the moment, or even two. We will speak again when we reach Barbados. You're dismissed."

He inclined his head, then turned on his heel and strode away, leaving Jack and Sam slightly stunned. This was better than pitching them directly overboard again, or welcoming them to a lifetime of servitude on the crew in an instant, but not by much. First, Barbados was the exact wrong direction for them to be going, away from Nassau and Skeleton Island, and second, Captain Rogers was clearly not letting them go anywhere until they gave him a few more solid answers. Nor had he liked being disrespected by Jack, even if Jack might be a year or so older than him. As they stood on the deck, the wind swiftly putting St. Kitts and Nevis, at bloody last, astern, Sam said, "Thanks a lot, Dick. I _told_ you to let me do the talking."

"And as he plainly believed nothing that was coming out of your mouth, Mr. Cocker, you're welcome."

"Welcome? I think he hates us already! You selling out Da Souza lightning-quick didn't do much to help that, either!"

"Da Souza tried to kill you." Jack stared at Sam as if in the long line of daft things he had said, this was the daftest. "Why on earth would you object to him getting what he deserves?"

Sam said nothing. He was almost wishing that Jack hadn't rescued him after all, if this was the result – at least Rutherford could have probably gotten him ashore in Nevis, not dropped straight into the lap of the Royal sodding Navy. They had used close to a month of their six-month allotment, which hadn't seemed like terribly much when Güemes had given it to them and felt like even less now, and all they had achieved was to be actively going backwards. Barbados was at the southern end of the Leewards, not far from the Spanish Main, and given as they happened to know, of course, that the Navy was planning an invasion of Cartagena, Captain Rogers and the _Griffin_ must be part of the advance guard sent to scout the best situation for the attack. They had had to leave slightly ahead of schedule due to Da Souza's interference – trust him to once more screw them over even in absentia – but that changed nothing. The _Griffin_ was headed deep into enemy territory, and unless Jack and Sam wanted to jump ship _again,_ try to make it back to the Spaniards, insist that they were who they claimed, and find another captain magically willing to take them to Skeleton Island, they were, for the foreseeable future, along for the ride.

After another moment, just waiting for Jack to say something else and downright shocked when he didn't, Sam likewise spun on his heel and strode away. Where, he had no idea. Belowdecks, probably. Spare hammock somewhere. Better, at least, than the _S_ and its stupid mangy dog.

That was how it went for the next several days. They sailed hard, due south, taking advantage of a break in the trades, and since Captain Rogers saw no reason to have two fit and able-bodied young men lounge around in the lap of luxury (the Navy's version of it, at any rate) while everyone else had their noses to the grindstone, Jack and Sam were promptly drafted to assist. After just one day of it, Sam was of the decided opinion that death might actually be preferable. He had no idea which bloody rope was which, was constantly bawled at by the bo'sun for guessing wrong, and only vaguely managed the complexity of the knots. If they were working near each other, Jack would hiss instructions at him, but as Rogers had also decided that it was preferable to split them up, this was not very often.

Sam could at least let out and tie down sails, but this required a hair-raising climb thirty feet up the shrouds and out onto the narrow yardarms, gathering in the struggling, slippery canvas, knowing that one slip meant you plunged to break your neck on the deck or hit the water with enough force to cause serious injury, if not death as well. Indeed, it was on the third day of this torture that Sam, having barely managed to escape reefing the topgallants with his life, finally hit the boards – only to be greeted by the death stare of the bo'sun. "COCKER!"

Sam winced. "Yes, sir?"

"You didn't hear me when I said to belay that order, and let the t'gallants fly?"

Sam froze. Yes, the bastard had been shouting something, but the bastard was always shouting something, and he had been too focused on getting back down. Everyone was now staring at him, and he rather wished he'd just taken his chances and jumped. "No. . . sir."

"O'Connelly, Shitbag, get up there and fix it." The bo'sun pointed furiously, and two men – one of whom surely did not bear the Christian name of "Shitbag" – scuttled for the rigging. "Seems I need to teach you better to LISTEN TO ORDERS, Cocker! Bloody good name for you, you cock everything up. Over there, on the mast. Now!"

Sam remained frozen. He knew that the order to present oneself at the mast meant one thing: that he was going to be flogged. He had been smacked on the wrist (and occasionally the arse) at home as a boy, and caned at school (though his parents had had a very stern word with the schoolmaster, as unlike the rest of the gentry, they did not believe in beating children until they presumably learned). But to be full-on whipped was something entirely beyond his experience, and he didn't think that a fairly trivial mistake warranted such draconian retribution. "Sir, I – "

"Backtalk me, Cocker, and it'll be double the lashes. MAST! NOW!"

Sam hesitated, cold all over with dread. Then he slowly went to the mast as ordered, started with fumbling fingers to remove his shirt as that was barked at him too, and supposed he was being made a particular example of for all his mistakes over the last few days – they were going to try to break him, impress on him just who was in charge now, if he still thought he was going to hide things from them. The gunner's mate, the man who did the flogging, was proceeding forward with the whip – he had arms like bloody tree trunks, he must enjoy his work. Sam tried very hard not to think about how it was going to feel to have nine lengths of knotted rawhide cut into his back when wielded by that arm, and failed. Unless he thought he was turning around and punching through the lot of them, which was clearly not going to happen and would get him killed anyway if he tried, he didn't know how to –

"Hey! What's going on here?"

For once, for bloody once, Sam was completely and unqualifiedly glad to hear that voice, as Jack emerged from below and stopped short at the sight of him, shirtless and trying not to shake in front of the mast. His eyes went narrow. "Something wrong?"

"Butt out, Jones. I'm teaching your idiot friend here the way it works in His Majesty's Royal Navy. Now, unless you want a hiding too."

Jack did not budge. "I don't recall that we are in His Majesty's Royal Navy."

"As good as, while you sail with us. _Now,_ I said, or – "

"Yes, you'll thrash me too?" Jack's smile was sharp and slanted, dripping with poison. Raising his voice, he called around the deck, "How many of you 'weren't' in the Navy, until you were?"

A fraught pause. Several hands raised. Their neighbors elbowed them smartly in the ribs, and they hastily put them down again.

The bo'sun's piggy little eyes flashed with a brief uncertainty. He could obviously tell that it might be dangerous to push too hard, especially if the _Griffin_ had had to press a number of men recently, and they might too well recall their own ungentle treatment. He opened and shut his mouth, off his footing, until the gunner's mate, having missed all this, shrugged and decided that he, for one, wanted to get on with things. He wound up, and delivered a belting sidearm stroke that bit into Sam's bare back like fire.

Sam, who had not been holding onto the mast to brace himself, was bashed headlong into it, pain searing up every available inch of flesh; he tasted blood in his mouth where he had bitten his tongue, and had thought he might cry out, but the wind had been too comprehensively knocked out of him to do that. He was only able to utter a strange, strangled croak of a noise, mouth wide open but getting no air, as the second stroke landed and he banged his chin on the mast, clawing at the ropes and trying to pull himself to his feet. He could feel it as if branded by an iron, staggered again under the third, and felt certain that the fourth one would split him in half –

– but it never came. Instead, looking around through his streaming eyes, he saw Jack snatching the whip, throwing it overboard, and punching the gunner's mate square in the throat, hard and fast as a striking viper, when he made a lunge for him. The man went down like a concussed ox, making some strange croaking noises of his own, and Jack picked up Sam's shirt, threw it back to him, and stood in front of him, plainly daring anyone who wanted a go of their own to come forward and do so, while Sam struggled with uncontrollably shaking hands to put it back on. Then when he had done so, Jack grabbed him by the arm, almost lifted him off his feet, and half-marched, half-carried him below.

They didn't stop until they were a good two decks down, well away from the rest of the crew, in the dim, damp, barnacled darkness of the forward hull. One lantern was swinging here, enough for them to collapse among a pile of heavily loaded sacks – or rather Sam did as his knees gave out, perforce pulling Jack down with him. He had nothing glib to say whatsoever, and in fact was practically devouring his lip to keep from crying. It wasn't working. Tears kept welling up and spilling down his cheeks, and his shoulders heaved, his chest ached, making the stripes of fire on his back burn still more fiercely. He just sat there, shaking.

"Hey," Jack said, voice odd and gruff. "Hey. It's all right. It'll sting for a while, but it won't scar. Just a few good welts. Didn't break the skin."

Sam scrubbed at his eyes with the grubby heels of his hands. Even being thrown overboard had not been nearly that bad by comparison, though he still felt horribly ashamed of himself for crying at all. "I'm – I'm sorry, you know I can't sail, like you said yourself – I'm a total failure, it isn't surprising he wanted to thrash bleeding Jesus out of – "

"Hey," Jack said again. "Never mind that, all right? Just take a few deep breaths. If we're in trouble later, I'll deal with it. It's the shock as much as anything. Guessing you've never been hit – or intentionally hurt – like that before. Have you."

"N. . . no." Sam waited for Jack's inevitable remark about how he was a spoiled brat who had never known true hardship, but it didn't come. "You have."

As with Jack's remark to him, it wasn't exactly a question, and Jack didn't bother denying it. His shadowed head moved once, in half a nod.

"Who?" Sam figured he'd clam up again before long, but he couldn't help asking. "Was it. . . someone in your family?"

Jack paused. Then he said, carefully toneless, "Aye."

Sam recalled Jack avoiding the subject of his father when it had first arisen back on Cuba, about why he went by a shortened version of his mother's surname, Bellamy, despite his apparent disdain for its pirate associations. It probably wasn't good manners to ask, but he didn't care. "Your dad?"

Jack tensed. He spread both callused palms on his knees, as if gathering himself. Then he said again, "Aye."

Sam knew he shouldn't push for more, but an uncontrollable surge of anger – no, more than that, _rage –_ shot through him, pure and incinerating as hellfire. To someone like him, who had grown up in such a loving family with (in his opinion) the best father in the world, it was unthinkable. "The fuck would he do that to you for? His own son?"

Jack barked a very bitter laugh. "Oh, now. That would take a _very_ long time."

"We have time."

"Suppose so." Jack let out a slow breath. "I'm trying to think how to make it simple. Let's put it this way. Sometime in 1715, while my uncle Sam was at the height of his pirate career, the Navy came to visit his family home in Devonshire, determined to find out if he'd been sending money or information back to them, or if there was anything at all they could tell them. As well, to punish them for his treason. As I said, my mother, Jane, was the youngest of the four Bellamy sisters. She was also very pretty. My father, Captain Jonathan Howe, was the leader of this fine investigative committee. Do you think you could put two and two together from there?"

Sam opened his mouth and then shut it very hard.

"Well," Jack said, very coolly. "I resulted. A few years later, Captain Howe learned that he had an unexpected souvenir from that visit, and as he had only a sickly daughter by his wife, decided to have me brought to London. Thus, therefore, to shape me into a suitable heir. Not that he ever once let me forget that I was a bastard son of pirate blood, that his wife loathed the very idea of me, and he would take it upon himself to ensure that any latent traitorous tendencies I might possess would never resurface. Only then would I be fit for polite society in London. _Polite society,_ they call it. And that is exactly how they make it: with utter, endlessly justified, unending violence. Reminding you, all the while, of what an honor they are doing you."

Sam was horrified. "How – how did you get away?"

"Also a long story. Suffice it to say, Captain Howe intended to marry his daughter to the son of one of his Navy colleagues, Captain Goode. But the son ran off with some West Indies native woman – got a daughter on her, disgraced himself, very scandalous for _polite society –_ and his sister, Charlotte, and I made. . . common cause. We took her niece after the parents died of typhus, and we. . . escaped."

Sam had been wondering if Charlotte would come up somewhere in this story. He tried not to jump to any number of further questions about what exactly their common cause had been, or how they had made it. "Well," he said at last, quietly. "Your father sounds a total beast, aye."

"He is not my father." Jack's voice was just as quiet, but its rage was depthless. "I owe him nothing. Now we're on a Navy ship again, after everything the fucking Navy has done to me, to my mother, to my whole family – so yes, you can bet I'll be damned before I let them flog you just because they feel like it. You have my word on that."

Sam opened his mouth again, trying to find at least something to say in response, but froze as he heard the boards creak. It was probably the gunner's mate come down here to find them and finish them off in the dark – must have seen them try to hide, to –

He pulled Jack back, out of sight, and both of them sat like hounds on point. But the sounds weren't of fighting. It sounded like two people, not one, and what came next was definitely not to be mistaken. There were low moans, soft sounds, sighs, and then the rhythmic, steady thump of someone pushed up against a wall. When Sam got half an eye out, he could just spot the entwined bodies, one thrusting behind the other, and jerked his head back at once. Well, then. That explained why these two sailors had also chosen to sneak down to this dark and (as far as they knew) deserted spot for a bit of privacy. He did hope they wouldn't be too long about it.

Sam sat unavoidably listening to the muffled lovemaking, hoping his cheeks weren't hot enough to glow in the dark and give them away. It was hardly as if such a configuration was unfamiliar to him, his grandparents and great-uncle living how they did, and his namesake had also openly loved men and women alike. He also knew that despite sodomy remaining on the books as a capital crime if convicted, the Navy had slowly given up fighting it with nearly the same vigor as a few generations ago – indeed, there were rumors that if a certain kind of young man wished to avoid pressure from his family to marry and produce children, the Navy was an excellent option (if they were rich enough to buy him a comfortable commission, of course). As long as they weren't caught, and as long as both parties were reasonably consenting about the whole affair, the Navy – much as they still might energetically censure it in theory – had begun to turn a studied blind eye to its rather rampant practice. _Bet Grandpa finds that the devil of an irony._

At last, the trysting pair finished their business, pulled up their trousers, and started to leave – only for the sack that Sam was perched on to slide out from beneath him with a loud thump. This put the lovers instantly on their guard – if someone told on them to the crew, they'd be marked men. "Hey!" one of them hissed. "Who's there?"

There were quick footsteps across the hold, as Sam struggled to think what to say – even if you weren't planning to tattle, it was still bloody awkward to reveal that you had been sat there listening to them the whole time. But just as one of them was about to come around the bulkhead, Jack reached out, grabbed Sam by the forearms, and kissed him.

Sam uttered a strangled _mrf!_ of protest, even as he felt rather unaccountably hot from head to toe, especially as Jack kept it up long enough for the investigating half of the lovebirds to catch them in turn. They locked eyes, Jack pulled belatedly away, and while Sam was still wheezing, he saw a very distinct look pass between Jack and the other man – the bloke thought they had gone down here for the exact same reason, and they both silently promised not to tell if the other wouldn't. It was a clever but insanely risky gambit, though that was of course the bloody norm for Jack. Sam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which he noticed was trembling again. Possibly also from shock, though of a decidedly different sort than from being walloped.

Jack listened until the lovers had gone, apparently completely oblivious to Sam's continued state of botheration. Then he pushed himself to his feet. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."

Sam still could have said any number of things in answer to that. Really could have. It was just, at the moment, he could not think of one.

He got up, and went.


	11. XI

It was very late by the time the colloquy over supper at the King's Arms was finished, and everyone began trudging upstairs in ardent search of sleep. Geneva was the last to leave the table, still chewing over everything, and finally, with an annoying sensation of being spied upon, looked up to see Jim Hawkins hovering a few feet away – well, she'd expected it to be Silver, so that was an improvement, if only slightly. "Well?" she said. "Did you need something?"

"No, I was just wondering if you – " He cleared his throat. "Needed me to, er. Walk you upstairs, or anything."

Geneva was almost charmed at this, if annoyed at the unintentional implication that she, a delicate female, could not walk up the inn stairs without stubbing her toe, seeing a mouse and swooning, or experiencing some other womanly distress. It was not the first time that she had instantly smitten some hapless nearby boy, to be sure, though she thought that the titillation and novelty of a _Lady Captain_ was most of it, rather than any deep personal considerations for her. "What? Hoping to have to carry me across the threshold? Be assured, Mr. Hawkins, that I can manage. Good evening."

"I'm not trying to be a patronizing arse, I swear. It's just, the last night I spent in an inn with strangers interested in Skeleton Island, the damn place burned down. I'm obviously hoping it doesn't again, but. . ." He shrugged uncomfortably. "Your. . . your uncle had to rescue my mother, and I. . . never mind. It's foolish."

Despite herself, Geneva was touched, as well as curious about Jim's peculiar reaction every time Liam Jones had been mentioned in the evening's conversation. "How was my uncle?" she asked instead. "Apart from being abducted, that is? Did he seem well?"

"He. . ." Jim looked even more uncomfortable. "Actually, for the last two days, I, ah, I was under the impression that he killed my father, so I wasn't exactly. . . that is, I suppose he seemed well enough, yes."

Both of Geneva's eyebrows flew up at _that_ little cannonball in the middle of an otherwise innocuous sentence. "You thought my _uncle_ killed your father? Aren't you the son of Mr. Hawkins, their old purser? As far as I know, Daddy and Uncle Liam were great friends with him, they served together from their first days in the Navy. He died in Nassau somewhere, but my uncle would never have killed him."

"Mr. Silver said he didn't." Jim looked back at her, as if eager for more confirmation. "I'm not quite sure why he claimed to have done it, but – "

That stumped Geneva too, but she added it to the ever-growing list of reasons why they had to track down Liam, Billy Bones, and Lady Fiona as soon as possible. "Just so you know," she said, "Mr. Silver is far from the best place to acquire reliable information, and I would be wary of putting too much stock in anything he tells you – even if it is true, he undoubtedly intends to charge you for it later. But in this case, yes, he's right. There's no way it was Uncle Liam."

Jim paused, then blew out a breath. A shy, crooked grin emerged that gave Geneva's own stomach an unexpected flutter. "I can't deny I'm relieved," he admitted. "It would have been uncomfortable if we were spending time together with that hanging between us, to be sure."

"Aye, it would at that." Geneva got to her feet, feeling the exhaustion settling onto her like lead. She was grateful that they had made such good time to Bristol, even with the trial of the storm, and obtained some much-needed clarity on their objectives, but the thought of turning straight around and setting back across the Atlantic in another week or so was enough to make her quail. If they were returning to the Americas this year, rather than wintering expensively in England or risking an extremely dangerous out-of-season crossing, they didn't have much time to spare. It was the end of August, and they couldn't realistically tarry here much longer than a fortnight, especially knowing that Bones and Lady Murray were ahead of them. She really just wanted to sleep until Christmas, and then wake and find herself home with her family, but that, alas, did not appear to be an option.

"Well," she said. "I'll bid you good night, then."

"Good night, Geneva." He caught himself. "Captain Jones."

"Thank you, Mr. Hawkins, that will do." Geneva couldn't help biting a slight smile as she moved past him to the stairs, which creaked and cracked underfoot as she climbed to the narrow, winding second-floor corridor. She started down it to the room at the end, only to be surprised by a shadowed figure, standing and staring out through the diamonded window glass at the dark city beyond. Recalling Jim's mention of inns mysteriously burning down with him inside, she was briefly suspicious, but relaxed as she realized that it was Madi, lost in what looked to be considerably unquiet thoughts. "Hey. Are you all right?"

Madi turned with a start, blinking hard, though not fast enough for Geneva to miss the tears in her eyes. This concerned her further, as Madi, to say the least, was not someone easily prone to crying. "Did someone hurt you? Did you and – you and Silver have a – "

"No. None of that." Madi brushed the back of her hand over her face. "You should go to sleep."

"No, I mean it. I'll go if you really don't want to talk, but. . . what's wrong?"

"This city," Madi said quietly. "This entire stinking city. It is built with blood money, fattened on slaughter, stuffing its pockets on the proceeds of the slave trade, and congratulating itself because so few of my brothers and sisters ever actually set foot here. These walls, this house, these streets, these ships, they are all bought and paid for by Bristol's proud status as the origin of the traders' triangle. I hear them screaming everywhere I turn. I see the whip falling on brown backs, crammed together in an airless hold, chained and crushed, every time I close my eyes. I cannot sleep in this place. It is a city of monsters."

Geneva started to say something, then bit her tongue. She was aware in an academic way that Bristol was the port through which nearly all of England's overseas trade goods – mostly purchased, exactly as Madi had said, by the profits of selling African slaves to Caribbean plantations, and by the harvest of those plantations worked by the same slaves – arrived, and she was none too easy with the fact herself, but she knew that she did not experience it at all as Madi did, and had no right to offer any opinion on Madi's feelings as a result. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "For getting you mixed up in this. I. . . if I should not have brought you here, I – "

"You did not _bring_ me here, like an object. I chose to come." Madi turned to look at her, gaze dark and level. "I was not trafficked, helpless to your will. I decided. Do not make the mistake of thinking otherwise again. But I appreciate your concern."

Geneva opened her mouth, then shut it, and nodded. "We will be leaving soon. I think we'll all be happier when we do."

Madi nodded in return, lips tight as if she was doing her best to hold herself together from crumbling on the spot. Geneva hesitantly reached for her hand where it clenched the windowsill, unsure if Madi wanted her comfort, when the creak of the hall boards made both of them turn. Silver was standing in the shadows, watching them but not venturing any closer, and held up a hand in clear expectation of their accusations. "I couldn't sleep either," he said. "This place is also no tender homecoming for me, that's all. If not quite to Madi's monsters, I daresay I see a few beasts as well when I lie down in the dark."

Geneva expected Madi to brush this off, as she had done after the storm when Silver tried to check on her, but she didn't. She looked back at Silver with something close to raw, unguarded yearning, as if she wanted more than anything to forget however he had let her down so badly, lost her trust, driven them apart, and for just for a short while, even knowing it ultimately changed nothing, to return to how it was when they loved each other. Despite mistakes, despite cracks and flaws, despite catastrophe and fatality, despite secrets and time and death. Madi looked away, then looked back, something in her softening just enough to let him know to come closer. He paused, then did so, crutch thumping on the knotted wood.

Geneva, feeling suddenly rather awkward, retreated a few paces as Silver joined Madi at the window. They stood there in silence, Geneva telling herself to go but not quite following through, until Silver raised a hand and put it on Madi's shoulder, as slowly and gingerly as if expecting her to go off with a bang. But a sigh that was half a sob shuddered through her from head to heel, she turned, and then all at once, her hands fisted in his ragged blue coat, she pulled him against her, and kissed him hard.

Silver was too surprised to do anything except go along with it, as his free hand hovered in the air behind her head, unsure if it had permission to grasp hold, open her mouth, deepen the intimacy. Then it moved to her face, and his callused thumb stroked the bold arch of her cheekbone, made circles in the hollow of her throat. Their noses brushed, they shared space and air and simple existence, in cooperation and not competition for the first time in who knew how impossibly long, eternities and eternities. "Madi," he breathed, soft and broken, as his forehead rested against hers. "Madi, you're tired."

Her lip trembled, as if the one time she wanted him to be selfish as usual, and take what he clearly still wanted from her, he wouldn't. He put his hand on her shoulder again, pushing her very gently back from him, and turned to Geneva, without apparent perturbation that she had just witnessed all this. "Captain Jones," he said. "I'd be indebted if you could see her to bed for me."

Geneva hesitated, absurdly tempted to tell him that he could call her by her first name after all, but she didn't. Instead she nodded once, stepped up, took Madi by the elbow, and steered her to their room, shutting the door behind them but not barring it. The women silently undressed and changed for sleep, turning back the worn quilt and settling side by side on the feather bolster. Geneva was so exhausted that even before she reached a fully horizontal position, she could feel the soft hands of sleep dragging her under, but Madi lay with hands folded on her chest, eyes open but opaque, like a tomb-carving in a cathedral. Geneva wanted to stay awake, to keep her company for a few of the dark watches of the night, but she physically could not. Her eyes closed, and she was gone.

She slept deeply but not entirely peacefully, haunted by the spectral, seaweed-draped shadow of Mr. Arrow flitting in and out of her dreams, and did not wake up, or even stir, until very late morning the next day. The spot next to her in the bed was smooth and empty, so it was impossible to tell if Madi had actually gotten any sleep, and Geneva rolled onto her back with a groan, flopping her arm over her eyes to block the offensive sunlight. She still felt as if she had been clubbed repeatedly by a very large troll. Come to think of it, surely there wasn't anything she was urgently required for today, and she would have gone straight back to sleep if not for the fact that she was starving to death and pressingly needed to use the chamber pot. Bloody inconvenient, really.

Grumbling and groaning, Geneva heaved herself out of bed, wondered when she had gotten so derelict and elderly, did her business, and shuffled to the dressing table, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror in case she turned to stone. She sat down with another groan, fished her silver-backed hairbrush out of her things, and began to do battle with her tangles of dark hair, which stuck out wildly in all sorts of salt-and-wind-whipped directions. She would absolutely see about a bath tonight, as she could feel grime lodged up every nook and cranny, and made a note to ask the innkeeper to arrange to have a tub drawn. There was nothing much to be done for her hair until then, aside from coil it back into its pins and put on a hat, and pull back on her old dress, no matter that it could practically stand up by itself at this point, as she didn't want to wear any of her clean ones until she had properly washed. Feeling as if the troll comparison was more apt than ever, Geneva reassured herself that it was only temporary and it wasn't anyone she cared about impressing, then went to see about breakfast. Luncheon, really, but never mind.

When she reached the common room, the only member of the traveling party there was her uncle, inspecting a copy of the London _Register_ with abstracted, academic interest, a cup of half-finished tea at his elbow. Evidently it was not merely Madi and Silver struck by the weight of this place, but Thomas as well, staring down at the broadsheet – with its details of society marriages, unflattering caricatures of whatever minister was presently most disliked in Parliament, patriotic appeals to support the war against Spain, notices for required household staff or vicars for parishes, theatre evenings in Drury Lane, dispatches from the Navy Office or the East India Company, and its obsession with noting the worth in pounds of prominent landed gentlemen – as if it was a document from a completely alien world. "I used to read this every morning at breakfast," he said, as Geneva slid in next to him. "It all seemed so important then. Now. . . I can't for the life of me recall why."

"Are you all right? Bristol seems to be. . . a bit more than any of us were quite bargaining for, personally speaking."

"Aye, I'll manage." Thomas picked up his tea and briskly downed the rest of it. "It's nice to have a good cup, at least – what with the ridiculous tariffs they keep putting on tea in the Colonies, it's turned into rather a rare luxury, and I _am_ still enough of an Englishman to appreciate it. We could afford it, of course, but James takes it somewhat personally that such taxes are levied especially for the purpose of paying for the latest of His Majesty's wars. Thus, gustatory pleasures have been sacrificed in favor of political principles." Thomas quirked an eyebrow with wry mischief, reaching for the pot to pour another. "Don't tell your grandfather about this, eh?"

Geneva grinned, even as she could tell that Thomas was using his gentle humor to move them away from the subject of his own feelings on actually returning to England, which could only be raw and complicated and surreal to the point of dreaming. "Where are the others?"

"Mr. Silver left early this morning." Aside from a slight tightening of his mouth, Thomas gave no evidence of his opinion on this. "He took young Mr. Hawkins with him, something about sorting out the preparations for our return journey. I believe he had some idea about finding a replacement for Mr. Arrow, at which I reminded him that you would have to approve any man he thought was suitable. As for Madi, I've not seen her. She must have left early as well."

Geneva took this in, not sure what she thought of Silver presuming to appoint a new first mate for her – well, unsurprised, but still severely annoyed. Every time he seemed to take a step forward, it was immediately followed by a dozen back. She hoped that whatever infatuation or interest Jim felt for her would not be overridden by extended exposure to Silver's company, as she did know that Silver was supposed to have a peculiar knack for making men see things from his point of view. Either way, it sounded as if nobody was spending the day loafing in bed, so good thing she had not either. She beckoned for breakfast, ate quickly, kissed Thomas on the cheek and told him to have all the tea he liked, then set out.

The day was fair but very windy, and Geneva's skirts whipped hard against her legs as she made her way down to the harbor front, thinking it was the most likely place for Silver to be holding interviews. If she found them, she intended to stride pointedly in and see if he had enough shame to be flustered in even the smallest degree, though she wasn't putting much stock in it. She hoped Madi was all right; an African woman would most likely be mistaken for a household servant and left to her own devices, but there remained the obvious possibility for trouble, especially if Madi felt like making her hatred for this place more concretely known. Not that Geneva blamed her in the least, but still.

After a preliminary circuit through the docks failed to turn up Silver, and Geneva had ensured that the _Rose_ was being berthed and refitted to her satisfaction (though first having an argument with the port master to convince him that it was _her bloody ship_ and she had the sole right to make decisions regarding it – God, she hated men sometimes) she could not help but want to have a wander up to the sailors' church, the one where Daddy and Uncle Liam had usually visited before leaving from here on the _Imperator._ Not that Geneva was overly religious – she tended to favor the work of the young Scottish philosopher David Hume and his _Treatise of Human Nature,_ published just last year, and that of the other empirical skeptics – but it was a piece of family history, and she was curious. So she left the docks, climbed the steep path, ignored the offered assistance of half a dozen passing gallants (she really hated men) and made it to the church, with its distinctive arch of a whale's massive jawbone. The door was made of driftwood, and Geneva politely removed her hat, as a gentleman would, before entering.

The sanctuary was cool, dim, and smelled as did every church. A few women who must be sailors' wives were lighting candles beneath the mural of Christ standing on the headland, guiding venturing souls safely home through the storm. Geneva paused, waited until the women had moved away, then put a ha'penny in the collection box and lit a candle of her own, feeling that they could do with any extra help they could get. The walls were inscribed with the names of all the ships who had made their home port here, and she followed them around until she came to the Navy stone. Running her finger down it, she stopped at _A.D. 1706 – HMS Imperator_. At least she thought it was that. The name had been half effaced by what looked like a chisel blow, as if someone, hearing of the vessel's treason, had decided it no longer deserved this honor and tried to strike it out.

Geneva ran her fingers lightly over the crack, fighting an odd sense of personal affront. What had become of the ship herself – renamed the _Jolie Rouge,_ feared across the Caribbean during her father's brief but spectacular career as a pirate captain, and then taken command of by Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny after the war – nobody was quite sure. Rackham and Bonny had sailed a few years with their cohort, Mary Read, but there was not much space left for that way of life in the Caribbean. They might have gone east to the Indian Ocean, following Edward England, one of their old colleagues on Charles Vane's crew, or all the way south round the Horn and into the Pacific, or somewhere else entirely. Like Flint, there had been scattered stories of their capture or surrender, but none, so far as Geneva knew, had been verified.

She hesitated, then moved to the next marble slab. Here was a list of the Navy men from Bristol who had met their end in its service and were worthy of humble and holy remembrance, and she found _Js. Hawkins, HMS Imperator, 1715_ easily enough. Nothing for her uncle or her father – which, given that they weren't, strictly speaking, actually dead – wasn't terribly surprising. Still, the message was unmistakable. They had been excluded, cast out, shunned from this place, from the dignity of its memory or the shield of its protection. If she sought it for herself, she would have to reckon with that legacy.

Geneva turned away, just as she became aware that one of the women from earlier was watching her, and had clearly been doing so for several minutes. She was a handsome blonde woman of middle age, with nonetheless something of a perpetually girlish cast to her features, her eyes cool and calculating. Seeing that Geneva had noted her regard, she inclined her head, but it fell short of any actual apology. Then she moved closer, skirts rustling. "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon." Sensible of it being a church, Geneva likewise kept her voice down. "May I help you?"

"Forgive me if I am mistaken. But by any chance, would you be Emma Swan's daughter?"

Geneva, who had found the fact that everyone seemed to know her by repute unsettling enough on Nassau, was completely flummoxed to have it happen again in a place as bloody far away as Bristol. Perhaps she should have expected it, having just been lost in thoughts of her family's past, but still. "I – I am, yes," she said stiffly. "Geneva Jones."

"I thought so. I saw you looking at the _Imperator."_ The woman smiled, though not with much real warmth. "Besides, I've heard a few interesting rumors recently. My name is Mrs. Eleanor Rogers. Your mother and I. . . knew each other quite a while ago."

"Eleanor – wait." The penny dropped. "Eleanor _Guthrie?"_

Something imperceptible flickered in the older woman's eyes. "That was my maiden name, yes. Your mother and I worked together on Nassau, when she was Captain Swan."

"Wasn't that before you married Woodes Rogers and turned against all of your old associates and friends?" Geneva had heard a thing or two about this woman, yes. "Even sided with Robert Gold, if he would give you the rule of Nassau as you wanted? And after your husband was imprisoned, you did – what? He eventually managed to become governor again, but we never heard anything about you going back there. You knew what sort of reception you'd receive."

"Well," Eleanor said. "Aren't you your parents' daughter."

Geneva took this as a point of pride. "You betrayed all of them. People remember that."

Eleanor waved a hand shortly. "For your information, when my husband was imprisoned, I managed to liquidate some of his debts through my grandmother's holdings in Philadelphia. We both agreed that it was wise for me not to go back to Nassau when he accepted another term as governor there – or rather was forced into it. Thus I never saw him again, since he died several years ago – which you, so well informed, doubtless know. The children of his first wife inherited what was left of the estate, any further rights and royalties for _A Cruising Voyage Round the World,_ and the chance to look down their noses at me for the rest of their days, not that they needed any help in that regard. I was allowed a pittance of money from the settlement and to live in one of the Rogers family properties here. I managed to secure our son a Navy commission, but we barely have two pennies to rub together."

"Your son?"

"Aye. Captain Matthew Rogers, of HMS _Griffin."_ Eleanor set her jaw. "He's been gone since last year, he's posted to – ironically – the Indies during the war. Truth be told, I suspect they'll find some way to make sure he never returns – why have him here, potentially mucking about in his half-siblings' inheritance and affairs, when they can keep him toiling at arms' length? They're terrible people, they don't give a whit for him. And he their own flesh and blood."

Geneva had attempted to keep a polite expression on her face, but at this, she finally interrupted. "And this has. . . what to do with me, exactly?"

"I thought. . ." Eleanor looked as if this was causing her considerable personal effort. "I realize, as you say, that I wronged friends of mine in the past. If this could be amended, perhaps I could accompany you. England's a fucking _miserable_ place, no wonder we left it when I was a girl, and if I can get back to my son. . . I've got bloody nothing from the Admiralty here, not even the pension I am due as Governor Rogers' widow, so perhaps Royal Navy headquarters on Antigua can be more induced to listen to my case. And of course, this venture of yours, given what I heard about _other_ recent visitors to the city – "

Geneva was briefly impressed to hear another woman use the sort of language she was known to resort to at times, but not enough to overlook her skepticism of this entire proposal, especially as she was in absolutely no mood to be saddled with any more blasts from the past. "Let me get this straight. You think I'll agree to haul you along just so you can get one up on your stepchildren, go to the Navy and badger them for your pension, which you got from marrying the chief enemy of the pirates, the man who tortured my father for information and nearly killed my mother and grandfather? Then while you're about it, get a cut of the lost treasure so you can once more live in comfort? No. Bloody no. I'm sorry for your circumstances, but they appear, Mrs. Rogers, to be entirely of your own devising. So I'll bid you good day and be on my – "

Any remaining pleasure in the visit decidedly evaporated, she started for the door, even as Eleanor trotted determinedly after her. They emerged into the bright sunlight, Geneva clapping on her hat and feeling in need of finding Silver so she could profitably yell at someone – only to be halted by the sight of the man himself, Madi, and Jim just coming up the path. Whether they were going to the church (it seemed unlikely) or somewhere else was unclear, but in any case, both the adults stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of Geneva's unexpected companion. Eleanor, for her part, appeared just as stunned to see them. A nasty silence reigned.

"Mrs. Rogers." Silver, unsurprisingly, was the first one to recover the power of speech. His tone was ostensibly polite, but the edge was unmistakable. "A long time, hasn't it been?"

"Mr. . . Silver." Eleanor might have been slightly more forewarned of his presence here, but only slightly. "And. . . Madi, was it not? Mr. Scott's daughter?"

"My father worked for you on Nassau a long time, yes." There was no warmth at all in Madi's tone, feigned or otherwise. "I arrived there near the end of the war with the _Walrus._ I understand by that time, you had already changed your allegiances to the English."

"Indeed." Eleanor gave a tight little smile. "I've just been speaking to Miss Jones here. I came into the city in hopes of finding the arrivals, when I heard there had been a ship from Nassau. I suppose it is only to be expected that you were aboard it."

"Indeed." Silver remained watching her, while Jim looked utterly baffled as to how everyone knew each other and what on earth was going on. For her part, Geneva could not help but wonder what the result would be, when two such supremely self-interested people were brought into conjunction like this. No equal arrangement, that was for sure. Silver went on, "And how, exactly, do you imagine we can help you? Surely you cannot even think we would? After – "

"Aye, so I was informed," Eleanor snapped. "I betrayed all of you. That does not seem to have disqualified _your_ presence here, does it? I've heard a few things about what you were have said to have done yourself, so do you really wish to pursue that line of attack?"

Silver started to say something, then stopped smartly. Then he said, "I am aware of my perdition, believe me. But I think Madi and Max run New Providence quite well these days, without you."

Eleanor flinched, ever so slightly, at the mention of Max, as Geneva was left to speculate interestedly on any number of potential prior connections. Madi herself looked almost pleased at the compliment, before remembering that it was Silver who had given it and for ulterior motives, and her expression turned cool again. Eleanor herself drew in a sharp breath through her nostrils and said, "Much as you will not believe it of me, I have no more ambition for Nassau. That foul fucking arse-crack of a place is welcome to do whatever it pleases. I wish, as any mother does, to be reunited with my son."

"Son?" Both Madi and Silver, who had personal experience with Woodes Rogers' cool, competent, and ruthless nature, looked alarmed at the revelation that there might be a man with his cold blood and Eleanor's cornered-cat ferocity running around out there. "His?"

"Of course it was my husband's child, what do you think?" Eleanor's eyes flashed. "Not that he ever knew him very much, given as it was first debtor's prison and then a return to that horrible island, in thanks for everything Woodes had done for them. Matthew is my only priority now, not Nassau. And while you may have no children of your own, Mr. Silver, I hope even you can understand that. Or can you not?"

Madi and Silver exchanged a look, an odd continuation of their intimacy from last night, but in a different way, as they silently sought the other's opinion and verdict on the matter. Geneva had no way of knowing if they had ever imagined or hoped for children for themselves – Madi had said they had lived as husband and wife for many years, had the question really never arisen at any point? Or perhaps it had, and they did not have the same answer, and that had contributed to their estrangement. It was clearly something very private that did not concern her, even as she pushed away a brief, unwanted pity (unwanted for Silver, at least). Then Silver said, "It is a moving tale, to be sure. But even if we were inclined to pursue it – "

"I wasn't interested," Geneva interrupted. She had made her decision, and nobody got to go over her head and override it, even if she didn't think Silver was in much danger (for bloody once) of that; his feelings on Eleanor were clearly no warmer than anyone else's. "Therefore, the matter is closed, and I am sure we all wish Mrs. Rogers a very pleasant day."

With that, she pushed past the lot of them and began to march down the hill, internally seething. There was a pause, then a rustle as Jim hurried after her, followed belatedly by Madi and Silver. When they reached the street, Geneva whirled on the latter. "Oh, and don't think you're excused. This plan to go behind my back and hire my new first mate for me, did you ever possibly imagine that I would be remotely pleased with – "

"I wasn't going to hire him for you." Silver had the temerity to look somewhat stung at this accusation. "I was merely going to examine a few options, see what was available. We _are_ running short-handed, you know. Mr. Arrow wasn't the only man we lost in the storm, and I can promise that at least a few of them will prefer to stay here over the winter, rather than immediately signing on for another long crossing. Besides, it can't hurt to have more fighters on our side, if we are likely destined for a confrontation at some point."

"So what? Hire the local Bristol street thugs, as long as they can handle a sheet?" Geneva felt her temper scraping thinner and thinner. "Or some old sailor I don't know and who will feel his opinion to be preferred to mine on everything? I'd almost rather sail short-handed, if that's the choice foisted on me!"

"Or," Silver pointed out, "you could make me first mate. At least you _do_ know me."

Geneva stopped, tilted her head, and stared at him coolly. "And suddenly I wonder if that was not your plan all along. Threaten me with some unknown and untrusted commodity, so you could then present yourself to me as familiar. Is that how you managed it with my grandfather? Aye, I know you, and bloody little of it is to your credit, especially given how your last post as quartermaster ended! Whatever else she may be, that Rogers woman is right. Betrayal did not disqualify you from being here somehow, but why should I encourage it?"

"Geneva – " Forgetting protocol, Silver reached out a hand. "Either way you look at it, it becomes twisted into malign intention on my part, is that it? Hire an outsider, and I seek to challenge your command and give a stranger a position of authority aboard your vessel. Suggest myself, and I have only craftily misdirected and misled for my own advancement. What can I suggest that you _would_ believe?"

"Perhaps nothing!" Geneva jerked out from under his touch, finally provoked beyond all endurance. "Did you ever consider that, Mr. Silver? Perhaps you should suggest nothing! Not everything is in your purview or requires your contribution! Perhaps it is _my_ responsibility, as captain, to decide who I needed on my crew and when, and there is absolutely no call for your feelings on the matter at all! I daresay if you did that once in a while, or even considered the concept in your life, clever man like you, you might have a few more friends!"

Jim's eyes went wide, as he was wearing an expression that could only be described as "oh damn," and Madi looked almost on the verge of smiling, but as someone who had been too personally hurt by Silver's deficiencies in this regard to find it very amusing. There was an extremely tense pause as Geneva and Silver stared at each other – the one looking furious, the other almost (if not quite) chagrined. Then, slowly, as if worried of making her shout again, Silver raised a hand. "Aye. That makes sense, I understand. I will furthermore leave the question of Mr. Arrow's replacement entirely up to you."

"Good." Noting Madi's gaze flickering between them, and then back to Geneva with something almost concerned in her eyes, Geneva nodded to her, turned about, and left the three of them behind, presumably to elucidate Jim on just who Eleanor Rogers, née Guthrie, actually was. She hoped they had seen the last of that woman, but these sorts of people were not easily shaken off – she should know, given as she had already been dragged from Nassau to Bristol by one, and had no intention of being dragged from Bristol to Nassau by another. Either way, before they were going anywhere, they were going to France. Geneva intended to get in contact with her aunt Regina as regarded her uncle Liam's whereabouts, and warn her about just who was responsible for his disappearance. If Regina then wanted to come along, well, yet another strong-minded woman to make Silver's life difficult could not go amiss.

Geneva spent the rest of the afternoon doing some interviewing of her own – there were always men who hung around docks in hopes of employment on a ship, and since she knew that Silver was right about some of the crew choosing to stay here and return next spring rather than hauling arse straight back, it would behoove her to have at least a few replacements lined up. Half the applicants were immediately gotten rid of, either by refusing to serve under a female captain or clearly thinking they could co-opt the chance for themselves, until there were only a handful left.

After a further few questions, Geneva had about made up her mind, even knowing it was not a completely safe choice, to settle on a taciturn, grizzled, bearded old salt who said that he had sailed with Blackbeard's crew back in the day, and who had been aboard when Woodes Rogers took the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ by trickery, killed Blackbeard with unusual viciousness, and chased the _Walrus_ to Skeleton Island. Anyone could have claimed this, of course, but he knew enough details for it to be plausible, and while he was clearly more than slightly mad, he was courteous enough to her. Moreover, when she mentioned John Silver, his eyes narrowed in a way that Geneva thought might do Silver the world of good. _"That_ sneaking, stinking, slithering shit? I've heard of him. If you have _him_ aboard, aye, I'm most interested in the post."

"We will see. There are still some preparations to be made, but I anticipate we will be leaving before the fortnight is out. No need to join us until then; I think it's best that Mr. Silver does not know you are traveling with us beforehand. I prefer him unprepared." Geneva smiled, close-mouthed. "Is that clear?"

"Aye, mum."

"Good. Then I'll see you soon, Mr. . . .?

"Hands." He inclined his head, but his eyes remained avid, intent as a vulture's in his scarred face, biding its time until its prey wheezed its last. "Israel Hands, at your service."

* * *

Sam's head felt rather far away from his feet as they climbed out of the dark hold and – very cautiously – up to the deck, which at least kept his mind, somewhat, off the continued throbbing of his striped back. It might not scar, but it was clearly going to be torture waking up tomorrow morning, not that it was presently too enjoyable either, and his shirt was unpleasantly sticking, causing him a hiss of pain every time it peeled off the welts. He had not forgotten that he had been rescued before the flogging was finished, and for all he knew, a few of the bo'sun's brawny mates would grab him, hold him down, and make sure there was no leaving early this time. Whether or not they were technically enlisted, the _Griffin's_ officers would not be happy about having their authority so openly and violently flouted – let Jack get away with it, and the rest might think that they could too. _Somebody_ was going to kick up a fuss.

Sam was quite confused, therefore, when they made it back above as unobtrusively as they could, and nobody looked twice at them. The crowd gathered for the spectacle of a whipping had dispersed – well, they wouldn't want anyone else playing the hero, he supposed – and all the men had returned to their stations. Given as there were now two of them somewhere who thought that he and Jack had popped off for a spot of refreshing buggery, Sam wondered if they should be careful not to emerge together. Though that _was_ supposed to be secret, hence the whole point of the kiss, and those blokes were not likely to speak up and draw attention to themselves. Should be all right. Should be.

In fact, they managed to get through the rest of the afternoon without anyone taking the slightest bit of renewed notice in them. Sam was relieved, but suspicious – could be they were waiting for nightfall, below decks – and wondered if he and Jack should strategically relocate their hammocks. Though that in itself could be questionable, if it looked as if they were hiding out (or, he supposed, off for round two) and Sam found himself almost looking forward to getting to Barbados, for any number of reasons. There had to be ships there heading back north. They'd get one of those. Scenic tours of the Caribbean might be all well and good, but he would rest a deal easier away from the Royal bloody Navy.

He and Jack ate with the rest of the sailors that evening, again without incident, and when it was time to retire, Sam shifted and squirmed and flopped about for ages, trying to find any position that did not sting like a fistful of nettles on his back. As there was only about eighteen inches of space per hammock – the deck was crammed to every side with sleeping men, smelling pungently of sweat and salt and musk and fart and arse and armpit – this quickly attracted hostile hisses and whispers ordering him to quit thrashing before they tied his balls around his throat and loaded him into a cannon. Events of the afternoon being what they were, Sam did not think it wise to press the matter. He lay curled uncomfortably on his side like a kipper, back burning, listening to the progressing racket of slow breaths and snores, unable to drop under despite being more exhausted than he had ever been in his life. How he was going to take another few days of this, he had absolutely no idea.

Sam had lain in a restless half-doze for what felt like close to an hour, before – startling him considerably – somebody put a hand on his shoulder. He jerked his eyes open, expecting to see Jack, but it was the cabin boy. He motioned to Sam to come with him, and Sam, after a moment wondering if this was an entirely wise idea, got out and followed the lad's example by crawling on hands and knees under the dim, swaying shapes of the hammocks, so as not to disturb their occupants. The deck boards were foul with spittle and spilled grog and other things Sam did not want to know about, and he reached the far side with relief, straightening up and clambering up the ladder, sucking down a breath of cool, fresh night air that was immeasurably welcome after the hot, cloistered reek of the sleeping quarters. The gun ports had been left open for ventilation, but that still did not do much, and Sam gulped gratefully until the funk had cleared from his nostrils. Remembering, however, his last sojourn on deck at night, he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the cabin boy. The little twerp was barely ten; if _he_ tried to throw Sam overboard, he was the one going swimming.

The cabin boy, however, did not have such villainy in mind, and beckoned Sam across to the door of what was unmistakably the captain's quarters. Sam, realizing that the villainy might only have been delayed to arrive in a different form, felt an unwelcome lurch in his stomach, but there was nothing for it. Mouth dry, hoping that the entire lot of them were not about to jump him, he followed the boy into the low-ceilinged, candlelit cabin, rear windows cranked open and the dark sea smooth as glass beyond the stern lanterns.

Inside, Captain Rogers, cravat undone and jacket off, was playing cards with the warranty officers – two lieutenants, the purser, gunner, and surgeon, by the looks of things – but at the sight of them, he quickly finished the game and gestured for his guests to leave. Sam did not find this a particularly auspicious beginning, but forced himself to control his nerves, standing as noncommittally as possible until the last "G'night, Cap'n, sir," had been muttered, and the two of them were alone. It was plain that despite his youth, Rogers had the respect, and perhaps more than a little fear, of men ten or even fifteen years his senior. Sam also did not find this very reassuring, but still refused to fidget. Whatever this was about, he was liable to find out uncomfortably soon, and was more than happy to wait.

"Mr. Cocker," Rogers said. "Sit, if you would."

Sam hesitated, then moved into one of the vacated chairs at the card table. There was a snifter of brandy at Rogers' elbow, but he did not appear to be at all inebriated, and Sam doubted that he was about to be offered a friendly drink. He tried not to let on the way his heart had sped up – the bugger was just Jack's age or so, nothing more than an older boy at school who thought he knew everything, no need to be scared. And as well, no need to make this any worse. "Captain."

A faint smile turned up Rogers' lips. "James Cocker," he said. "That _is_ your name, isn't it?"

"Aye."

"And your friend is Richard Jones?"

"Aye."

"Who are your parents, Mr. Cocker?"

"Uh – Bartholomew. Bartholomew and Ruth Cocker, of Georgia." Sam thought about saying Virginia or some other place, but he'd already mentioned that he was with Oglethorpe's army, no need to muddle the picture. "They're greengrocers."

"Are they indeed?" Rogers sipped the last of the brandy, set it aside, and folded his hands on the table, surveying Sam with that level, appraising look of his. "Fascinating though the work of a greengrocer doubtless is, it is not your parents that I intend to discuss tonight. My concern is rather with your. . . friend. Mr. Jones made quite a spectacle earlier."

"Er, yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, I suppose he did, a bit."

Rogers smiled another of those smiles that never got anywhere near his eyes. "Forgive me, since you have already changed your story on me once, if I cannot help further curiosity into you two's origins. Oh, I believe you are an English soldier, if a somewhat unenthusiastic one – the Crown, after all, does not ask us to love it, only obey it. I will, however, believe a Covent Garden whore is the Queen of England before I believe the same of your friend. Who is he, really?"

"J – Richard?" As if there was anyone else they could be discussing.

"Indeed. You may be interested to hear that Mr. Sherwood, the gunner's mate, will be all right in a day or so, though with a very nasty bruise on his neck. If Mr. Jones had done him more serious injury. . . well, one cannot help but think it was mere chance that he did not. Rather a vicious temper, especially when it comes to defending you."

Sam, who had been about to point out that Mr. Sherwood deserved it, decided this to be unwise. He wished Rogers would quit staring at him like that, or at least blink a few times. "Aye," he said, trying to sound friendly. "Dick is a pain in the arse, all right. Know what I mean?"

"Is that a joke, Mr. Cocker? A rather ill-advised one, at that?"

"I – what?" Sam blinked. "Oh, Jesus. No."

"I'm relieved to hear it." Rogers leaned back in his chair. "So, if that is your honest opinion of him, and as I said, it's apparent he's no English soldier – again. Who is he?"

"How do you know he's not? He's English. He clearly can fight. He could be a soldier." Sam debated whether to mention that Jack's father was a Royal Navy captain – that might reveal that his name was not Richard Jones, aye, but it might give Rogers pause about doing anything too drastic to him. But Sam knew that Jack had not told him that just for him to turn around and blab it that same night, especially to this man. "I'd – well, probably just don't let the crew pick any more fights with him, we get to Barbados, and go on our way, free as a – "

Rogers took his jacket from the windowsill, removed a knife and a small block of wood, and shaved a long, delicate curl off it. "Nights are long at sea," he explained. "Often with nothing to pass them with, so I've taken up whittling. Useless, of course, with a dull knife. Useless and frustrating. To get anywhere at all, one must keep the knife sharp and be patient. Carve away at the block bit by bit, even if it looks nothing like one hopes, until some sort of shape is revealed within. It does take effort, and forethought. And of course, if one is not paying attention, one could cut oneself rather badly. Not something one does absently, whittling."

Inexperienced he might be, but even Sam was not thick enough to miss the decided – and decidedly sinister – double meaning of this remark. He resisted, again, the urge to fidget or gulp, instead gazing as blandly back at Rogers as if they were actually talking about woodwork. "Oh? What're you trying to make, then?"

"I'm not sure just yet." Rogers turned the small carving in his hand. "That, though, is the other thing. You can't wait too long to decide, must set your design and commit to it. Wood, after all, is not a very malleable substance – you cannot start to make something and then change your mind halfway through, or all you do is ruin the work. You must etch one likeness, or another. Helps build one's resolve, shall we say. Tell me, Mr. Cocker, what does a greengrocer's son do for recreation? Toss onions about? I imagine with sufficient practice, you could even learn to juggle them."

"For recreation?" Sam repeated. "Same as other lads, I reckon. We're not some strange and separate species."

"So I see." Rogers continued to regard him thoughtfully, until Sam was seriously tempted to do a stupid thing and just order him to get to the bloody point. But this one did not hurry, and that was the danger of him. It reminded Sam of something, some story he'd heard, especially. . . well, the thought _had_ crossed his mind. But _Rogers_ was nearly as common a surname as _Jones,_ and was no proof at all that this deliberate young man with his elegant whittling threats and air of polite incredulity was, in fact, the spawn of Governor Woodes Rogers – whom Sam had never met, and thank God for that. He knew about the man, of course, for the role he had played in the history of their family and Nassau alike, but to Matthew, even allowing for an unfortunate event where he _was_ the governor's son, it would be likewise just old stories. Or would it?

After a moment, when Sam volunteered no more information, Rogers put the block back in his jacket, but kept hold of the knife. "You asked," he said, as if continuing their earlier conversation with no interruption, "how I could be sure that Mr. Jones was not an English soldier. You say your parents hail from Georgia. I realize, of course, that the colony is a large place. . . but with a name like _Jones,_ that look and coloring, such clear hatred for the Royal Navy and everything it stands for, and knowing that Georgia was the last place we can establish the residence of Killian Jones, formerly Captain Hook. . . Mr. Cocker, do you know who your friend really is?"

Sam just managed to keep the telltale lurch of shock off his face. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"

"I am suggesting," Rogers said, with some impatience, "that your ruffian of a friend is, in fact, the son of a notorious pirate, who himself deserted from the Royal Navy long ago and poses, I am told, a severe and ongoing threat to the English Crown's interests both in the Caribbean and elsewhere. I am under specific orders to find and secure this individual at all costs. If your friend _is_ the child of Captain Hook, I am afraid – "

"He's not." Sam's hands were shaking under the table, so he clenched them. "I know his parents, they're, ah, their names are John and Jane."

"And why does the son of John and Jane Jones hate the Navy so much, Mr. Cocker?"

"Well, you know. They can be a bit. . . not to everyone's tastes."

"Indeed." Rogers studied him a moment longer, then raised his voice. "Come in, please."

Outside, there was the sound of scuffling and struggling, a yelp, a thump, and then the cabin door opened again, to admit, with difficulty, Rogers' former card-playing partners. The two lieutenants were wrestling Jack by either arm, the gunner (doubtless with a personal vendetta for Jack having left him short his mate for the time being) had him in a headlock, and the purser was watching the whole thing with a sort of grim satisfaction. They made it inside, the purser shut the door, and the lieutenants forced Jack, again with considerable struggle, to his knees in front of the captain's table. "Got 'im, sir."

"Indeed," Rogers said again. He regarded them critically – one had a split lip, the other a black eye, and they were both out of breath – and then turned to Jack, who was glaring up at him through the long lock of black hair that had fallen in his face. "Good evening, Mr. Jones."

"The fuck it is." Jack's gaze slid briefly sideways onto Sam, almost as if he had to make sure that Rogers hadn't hurt him any more while they were alone together. "Go ahead, beat me all you want. I figured this was coming."

"No, I don't think so," Rogers said. "But if you'll excuse me, I just need to perform a brief test of a hypothesis. Warwick, hit him."

The lieutenant in charge of Jack's left arm passed custody of it to the gunner, then stepped around, squared up, and as his fellows hauled Jack into a half-standing position, slugged him in the stomach. Jack doubled over momentarily, but unlike Sam, he clearly knew how to take a punch, and he was straightening up again even as he was, breathing heavily and gulping hard but with evil stare undimmed. "Four men to come get me while I'm sleeping?" he rasped. "No wonder England is so proud of having all you brave heroes in its service."

Lieutenant Warwick cracked his knuckles threateningly, but Rogers raised a hand. "That will do, thank you. That was all I needed to know. You are, Mr. Jones – as does not surprise me, given your lineage – clearly not a man whom violence can break. You are too used to it, and it only strengthens your recalcitrance. Therefore, I see no call for effort and unpleasantness to be expended in beating you. We can make this simple. Are you the son of Killian Jones, better known as Captain Hook?"

"What? No."

It was clear that Rogers did not believe this, and Sam fought an insane urge to yell out his real identity, as he had admittedly been doing a bit too freely on this adventure to date, but bit his tongue at the searing look Jack threw him. The captain paced a measured circle around Jack, looking down at him with slight disgust, as if a man so clearly governed by his passions and darker impulses was little better than a savage of some distant land, far from sharing in the exalted exercise and virtue of Reason that, the new philosophers assured them, was special and unique to Western men. "Are you then," Rogers said, more coldly, "related to Killian Jones in any way, or have some knowledge of his current whereabouts?"

"I don't have a fucking clue. Are you done?"

Rogers raised an eyebrow. Then he nodded to the gunner and the purser, who – leaving the lieutenants to manage Jack – suddenly and alarmingly grabbed hold of Sam and slammed him down on the table so hard that he saw stars. The gunner pinned him with a beefy forearm, while the purser opened one of the drawers and removed a riding crop. To say the least, riding crops were not normally required aboard a ship, so this one must be present for the exact use to which it now threatened to be put. "I quite believe that we can make no headway on your resolve by violence applied to your own person," Rogers said, as if explaining a simple concept to a rather dull-witted schoolboy. "But given what efforts you went to this afternoon to save Mr. Cocker from a thrashing, I wonder if that also holds true when applied to him?"

For a moment, which was somehow more terrifying to Sam than the fact that he was thrown flat on a table and possibly about to be whipped again, he saw Jack go white. He did not have a sharp answer ready for that, and Rogers smiled with a distinct air of victory. "You know," he went on. "I am aware of the certain. . . attachments that can sometimes form between crewmen, serving together in close quarters for long periods of time and deprived of the society of women. Unlike other captains, I have not seen any call to go to violent lengths to root it out, as long as it does not interfere with the smooth and orderly running of the vessel. So please do understand, Mr. Jones, that this punishment is not for sodomy, but for insubordination. Unless you wish to spare your little Patroclus, and tell me the truth?"

Jack opened and shut his mouth. As if in an attempt to ascertain his resolve, the purser yanked Sam's shirt over his head, and the gunner dealt a ringing blow with the crop that lashed right into one of the welts from earlier, making Sam utter a strangled scream despite himself; he could feel hot blood trickling down his back. He struggled with a ferocity that surprised even him, but the gunner banged his head back onto the table and belted him again. Sam twisted around and tried to bite him, but a backhand full across the face sent him reeling, and his ears were ringing enough that he almost missed Jack yelling. "Bloody hell! Bloody hell, you _fucking_ bastards! All right, I'm his fucking son, does that make you happy? Jesus!"

Sam's jaw dropped – which, considering that it had just gotten soundly clocked, made it hurt considerably. He was on the very verge of speaking up, but Jack gave him another of those searing looks warning him not to do it or he'd kill him personally, and he snapped his mouth shut. The air was tensed to the point of total explosion, as Rogers, with that same measured stride, approached Jack once more. "For clarity and confirmation's sake, I think we'd all like you to repeat that. You are – ?"

"I'm his son. Killian Jones' son." Despite being unspoken, _You motherfucker_ hung in the air loudly enough for them to hear it anyway. "Satisfied?"

"It's a start." Rogers glanced to the lieutenants. "Until we reach Barbados, I think it's best if Mr. Jones is kept in the brig. My lord will undoubtedly wish to question him personally, so anything that leaves him out of shape for talking is strictly forbidden. I will be very angry if this order is found to be flouted. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Take him away. As for you, Mr. Cocker – " Rogers turned back to Sam – "you are excused from further obligation to serve on the crew for the rest of our journey. We will instead find you something suitable for the skill of a greengrocer's son – swabbing the decks or mucking the head, perhaps, or helping Mr. Alfred in the galley. As long as you make yourself useful, the crew will be informed that the matter has been settled, and any man who pursues a grievance with you will be punished. Test me again or challenge my authority, however, and you will _very_ much wish you hadn't. Likewise, am I clear?"

"Yes." Sam's lip felt fat and painful, but that was not the only reason the word was difficult to choke out. "Sir."

"Good," Rogers said again, with one last lingering look between them. "Well, gentlemen. I'm glad we've sorted everything out. Good night."

The rest of the voyage to Barbados passed in something close to a blur. Sam knew that it was more than his life was worth to sneak down to the brig, but he was still angry at himself for the cowardice of this – surely if he was brave enough, he would do it anyway, especially as Jack was taking what should have been his sentence. Why on earth the stupid git had decided to come over noble for once in his life and lie about this, Sam had no idea – he assumed that it would have been entirely in character for Jack to sell him out quick as spit, just as he had with Da Souza. Evidently, however, Jack hated the Navy a lot more than he hated Sam, and thus was willing to endure the slings and arrows of one if it meant sparing the other. Exactly why, well. . . Sam figured it wasn't a good idea to think about that too much. The kiss had just been a ploy, and besides, there was still this mysterious Charlotte. Best not to go getting things confused.

At least, Sam supposed, he wasn't still being forced to muddle along with sailing, but it was almost worse than if he was. Everyone knew he was officially not good enough to hack it with them, taken pity on and made to do odd jobs that he could handle without calamity – scrubbing deck boards and scouring pots for the cook, sluicing out the reeking head after the crew had all taken their morning shits. _Something suitable for the skill of a greengrocer's son._ No wonder Rogers had never been troubled by a single flicker of suspicion as to whether he had gotten the wrong man. Jack was the exact sort of son that everyone would expect Dad to have. _But Captain Howe was the real monster of a father, and not Captain Hook._

Sam tried to focus on what was before them, to remember that this was doubtless building his character, and he would probably be able to laugh about it some day. But for a boy like him – so proud of making friends, of being _liked,_ even as he feared so greatly that he wasn't – he nonetheless struggled with some kind of hatred that was building slowly in him like poison, that almost made him want to be sick. Hatred of who or what exactly, he didn't even know.

They reached Barbados two evenings later, gliding into Bridgetown harbor on the gilded road of the setting sun and dropping anchor. Despite the lateness of the hour, Rogers was insistent on paying a call at once, and Jack was hauled up from below, wrists in irons, and marched across the deck to the jeers of the crew. He and Sam exchanged half a glance, and Sam couldn't tell if Jack was disappointed or not, if he had expected Sam to come up with some plan to get them out of here before it came to this. Probably not. Jack was likely not at all surprised that he had spent the last few days in the brig pretending to be Sam, and not seen hide nor hair of the real one.

With Sam joining the visiting party thanks to the gunner grabbing his arm and dragging him along with Rogers, Jack, the lieutenants, and a dozen men with muskets, they went ashore and rode in a pair of carts up the hill, into Bridgetown, and toward the impressive estate that sat magisterially gazing down on the port. Rogers spoke in a low voice to the guards on the gate, and they were admitted through at once, rattling down the immaculately kept drive and up to the white-columned house. Jack and Sam were roughly extricated and escorted up the steps, Rogers knocked, and a servant let them in. Another quiet word was exchanged, and they were pointed to the back of the house.

Sam was starting to have a bad feeling about this for more than just the fact that they were in another important bigwig's house after Güemes in Havana (though as allies – maybe – this time, instead of adversaries) and Rogers thought their delivery important enough that it couldn't wait until morning. He had said he'd been told that Killian Jones remained the greatest threat in the Caribbean, that he was under specific orders to find him, and that "my lord" would want to question Jack himself. All of this added up to an individual that Sam was suddenly quite certain he did not want to meet, and that bad as things might look right now, they might be about to get several orders of magnitude worse. _Why didn't you think of something, you bleeding idiot? Why didn't you get us out of this? Completely bloody useless, James Cocker the greengrocer's son. Completely!_

They reached the door into what looked like a study, but as Rogers raised his hand to knock again, it opened, spilling golden lamplight into the dark hall. The figure thus revealed was a slight man, leaning on a cane, with long grey hair tied back, hooded eyes that reflected almost black, and a ring with a star emblem gleaming on his first finger. He was at least Sam's grandfather's age or older, but likewise still just as dangerous, if not more so. He surveyed his unwilling guests, turned to Rogers, and smiled.

"Ah, dearie," he said. "Do come in."


	12. XII

Killian woke, to his fury, to what sounded like a whole passel of feral cats yowling in the alleyway, or perhaps some loitering drunkard running afoul of the night watchman and being pitched headlong into a barred wagon, thus to contemplate his poor life choices at leisure. _Better you than me, mate._ Yet Killian's fury did not stem from this unharmonious awakening, per se, as much as the fact that it had jerked him out of a highly enjoyable dream about Emma, which had just been getting to the best part. As Killian thought it grimly likely that he would be deprived of his actual wife for a while yet, it was doubly unjust to then be ripped away from her intimate society in dreams, and he kept his eyes shut, trying to conjure back what precisely had been about to happen, and where everything had been positioned.

In this, at least, he had an excellent well of experience to draw upon; he supposed it was somewhat surprising that they had only had two children. But then, Emma knew where to get her hands on vodou drugs and herbal draughts and the like, which lessened the risk of an inadvertent seedling. Geneva of course had been completely unexpected, but they had deliberately decided to try for Sam, had wanted him so much, and the day he was born – perfectly healthy, but giving them a terrible scare with the cord wrapped around his neck – had been both the worst and the best day of Killian's life. If there were other children after that, he'd not have minded in the least, but Sam seemed to make their family complete, and they'd been happy ever since. Speaking of which, it had to be nearly Sam's birthday – it was a fortnight after Killian's, on the seventh of September. He'd be twenty. No longer a teenager, in all ways a man.

A pang of melancholy went through Killian at the thought, chasing away the remnants of frustrated oneiric lust, and he fell back on the hard, thin pillow and scratchy straw mattress of the tavern bed, staring at the woodsmoke-stained ceiling and trying to remind himself that it would not be forever. He'd see his family again, finish things properly with his wife, kiss his daughter, hug his son, have a good chat about books with Henry. It would help a great deal, however, if the Le Havre authorities would just quit their valiant search for Rufio's killer. Killian and Regina had been holed up in this reeking shitshack for four days waiting for the heat to die down, which it had not yet done, and from that, Killian could tell that someone, somewhere, was keeping the pressure on them to continue looking. They wouldn't be going to all this effort for ordinary riffraff otherwise, so this mysterious employer of the Lost Boys must be someone with both influence and money. Lady Fiona, or one of her deputies. _Brilliant. Bloody brilliant._

Killian shifted restlessly, tempted to creep to the window and have a gander. Maybe it hadn't been feral cats or a stray drunkard, maybe it had been something else. But the floorboards creaked like the devil, and waking Regina early – after doing it the last few days just to annoy her, as she usually kept to a much later schedule – had somewhat lost its savor. They were still pulling like mules tied to opposite ends of the same rope, both determined to go in their own direction and hang the other, but Killian had decided (with some regret) that they _were_ over fifty years of age, and this continued squabbling did not befit their seasoned dignity, dubious as it might be. Besides, too much more of this and they'd strangle each other before they ever got out of France. That, at least, could be safely assumed to be counterproductive.

Instead, Killian lay there, darkly congratulating himself on his restraint and watching the grey light creep up the wall, until he could hear rustling from downstairs, more clatter from the street outside, and Regina stirred and rolled over. She peered at him with the vaguely hopeful expression of a woman also wanting to wake up and find her spouse there, which then went sour as quickly as curdled milk when she realized it was the other Jones brother. "Oh," she said, turning back onto her side. "You."

"Still me, yes." Killian pushed himself upright. "And good morning to you too, love."

Regina's lips went rather thin but she likewise held herself back from any more caustic comment. Instead, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. "If I have to spend another night being munched on by whatever is breeding in those sheets, I swear. . . it'll be a miracle if we ever get to England. Why the devil haven't they given it up yet? Rufio can't have been _that_ important."

"I had a theory." With that, Killian filled her in on his unpleasant hunch, to which Regina listened with her customary expression of suspicion and exasperation. At least she listened, however, and did not interrupt, and finally he said, "So unless we can find whoever's paying them enough to keep up the search, we might not – "

"I'll have to do something about this." Regina tapped her fingers together. "They're not looking for me, after all. Do you think you could possibly keep yourself out of further trouble if I did?"

"How long is that going to take, then?"

"No more than what you've already cost us." Regina went to the corner and began digging for her clothes. "If I had any sense, I'd leave you here and just continue the search for Liam myself. But I suppose he'd want us to stick together, and for me to fix your mistakes, so – "

"Aye, Liam might have a thing or two to say about that," Killian said, rather more sharply than he meant. "At least about keeping me around, troublesome as I might be. You know, though, he's no saint either. I'm sure the both of you have worked quite efficiently at getting things done, however you need to. But then, you're used to it only ever being the two of you, aren't you? Never even have to try to like anyone else."

Regina flinched. "What Liam and I do isn't your – "

"Bloody hell, we're family too. Much as neither of us like it, but we are. And we've lived apart so long that it's not surprising we're no good at it, but right now, we are what the other has. So if we just put a little bloody effort into working together instead of – "

"What you said. About it just being the two of us. Yes, it has. And we. . ." Regina seemed to be struggling with the words. "You and Emma, you have a whole family, you have so many people. Did you – did you have to?"

Killian was perplexed. "Did we have to do what?"

Regina twisted the hem of her petticoat. "Take Henry and Geneva back."

"What?" Whatever Killian had expected her to say, it was not this. "Aye, they're our children, of course we did! When we gave them to you and Liam, it was so you could take them to safety, and raise them if we died. Well, happily – though you may disagree – we didn't. I know you'd had them for a bit and I'm sure you became fond of them in your way, but still – "

"You could have had more!" Regina did not seem to want to say this, but it burst out of her. "You did have more, you and Emma had another son! If you'd let us keep Henry and Geneva, or even just Henry, we could have raised them just as well, we could have had children too, not just the empty house with the two of us and Liam's nightmares. I might know more about this, about how to be a mother, how to care, how. . ." She waved a hand, eyes too bright, mouth too tight. "I can't. Have children of my own. It was my decision, a long time ago, to hurt my mother, and I. . . I'm not proud of it, and I've done well enough in my life besides, but. . ."

"Aye, we had Sam, but that's not how it works. You can't replace one child with another. My bloody father tried it – in this very city, I'm sure you remember Liam Junior – and look where that got him, got both of them! We couldn't have had Sam just to put in Henry's place. You could have taken in another orphan, a fosterling, some other street urchin who needed a – "

"As you said." Regina gripped the back of the chair as hard as if she wanted to break it. "You can't replace one child with another."

They stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment, neither of them wanting to have been this honest, to bare these depths of wounds to the other, but no longer able to turn back and pull away. At last Killian said, "I didn't realize you cared for Henry so much."

"I expect you don't realize a number of things." Regina's voice was very quiet, the barb made by reflex, as her fingers loosened their stranglehold but did not relinquish it entirely. "You never came back to France after you left. I know it's a long voyage, but a family of sailors like you, you could have made it, once the children were a bit older. I know Liam wanted to see you. Why did you stay away? Was it just to punish him? Punish us? Salt the point home that you had what we could not? Until you became Hook, you and Liam never spent a moment apart. How did it turn into almost twenty-five years?"

Despite himself, Killian was caught off guard. After the battle of Nassau, he and Emma had made the trip to France late in the year, willing to take the risk of a winter crossing if the alternative was waiting months and months longer to see the children again. They had been married in Paris on New Year's Eve, and then returned to the Americas the following spring. Every time Killian thought about returning after that, some excuse had arisen for him to postpone it. Someday, he told himself. Someday, of course, he would see Liam again. Someday, when the children could make the trip with them. Then Sam was born, and the clock reset, and then they reunited with Flint and Miranda and moved to Georgia, and then. . . on and on.

It was only now, for the first time, that Killian was forced to admit that there had been more to it. That he loved Liam and always would, but did not want to live with him anymore, or even with him nearby. That he had spent so long living in Liam's shadow, clinging to him for protection, scared and powerless, that something of that still remained in him whenever they were together. Liam still tried too instinctively to parent him, to protect him, and while of course that had kept him alive when they were boys, Killian did not want it any more. For better or worse, he wanted to make his own mistakes, live as his own man, rather than the two halves of one creature, each barely sure of anything without the other, that the young Jones brothers had been. Could not risk it happening again, not when they could never go back, not when he did not want to, but still almost thought that Liam might. And so, unconsciously, then intentionally, stayed away.

Regina was still looking at him, waiting for an answer. Killian was not sure how on earth to explain this to her, or if she would remotely understand. Finally he said, "Well, if we catch up to him, I'll see him then, won't I?"

Regina eyed him as if she was about to push for a better explanation, then thought better of it. Instead, she turned and resumed getting dressed without a word, evidently feeling that they had talked about enough emotions for now, and Killian followed her lead. He had long since learned to do most things with one hand, including this, but it could still be a bloody hassle, and he was used to having Emma to help with the odds and ends. He, however, was categorically not asking Regina to step in, so he awkwardly tugged and tied his laces himself. He too was more than ready to see the back of this place.

When they were presentable, Regina said, "I'm going to see if I can't do something to convince this lot to crawl up someone else's arses. Stay here and don't kill anyone else."

With that, they headed down to the taproom, which was mostly empty at this early hour, scoffed an unappealing breakfast, and Regina, switching to French, put on her most charming manner to ask the tavern keeper something, presumably where to find certain important people and what would be most effective in changing their minds as regarded a few small difficulties. After another dubious look at Killian, she told him it would likely be several hours, and slipped out.

The idea of sitting here by himself and waiting for Regina to miraculously sort everything out was less than pleasant, the barman was giving him very dark looks for continuing to occupy a seat without paying, and going upstairs to swelter in their tiny, smelly room sounded like torture worse than the month-odd he had just spent on the _Pan._ Finally, even knowing that he really should not, that he'd blow everything sky-high if caught, Killian nonetheless decided that it could not hurt, with hood well up and hook hidden, to step outside a moment. As long as he did not draw attention to himself or try to board a ship – no bloody chance of that, unfortunately, given as Regina was the only one of them who had money – he should be all right.

The day was cool and murky, with a strong sea fog blowing in off the Channel, and Killian had to keep a firm hold on his hood as he walked, lest it whisk down and do the French authorities' work for them. Regina would not be pleased, but then, Regina was never pleased, and he was more than willing to endure her ire in exchange for some fresh air. He had been unable to rid himself of the nagging thought that by some nasty coincidence, the tavern where they were staying was the one that his father had run, passed into new ownership and (further) disrepute after Brennan Jones' departure for the Colonies, even as he knew that it was no more likely to be so than any other public house in Le Havre. Besides, he was still troubled over his realization from earlier, about Liam. Some time to think would be either good, or bad.

Killian had been confronted long ago with the fact that Liam was only as flawed and fallible a mortal man as any of them, and he had mostly made his peace with it, but he was starting to understand as well that he was still angry about it. Angry at the world for what it had done to them, angry at Liam for what he had done, the lies he had told, and angry at himself, for constantly feeling as if he had not once made Liam's impossible task any easier for him. No wonder it had been preferable to wall it away and forget about it – he'd learned the truth, fallen from grace, become Captain Hook, been estranged from Liam, and then reconciled, only to be parted again, all within the space of a year. Perhaps it was no wonder that the wound remained, in some ways, unhealed, considering how diligently he had been avoiding it, involving himself with his new life and family, proving he could do it on his own. _I suppose Regina is right. I am punishing him._ But surely, almost twenty-five years was long enough, then? How much longer did this, now acknowledged, have to go on?

Killian did not have an answer for that question, and stood staring over the docks and their usual hustle and bustle, wishing he had someone to talk to. Emma, of course, would have been his first choice, as the two of them had taken a while to learn how to come to the other with their past hurts and their old secrets, but now they could confide anything (well, usually). Flint would also not have been a bad second option, as the two of them had gotten very used to each other, could be honest about their similar demons, and if you squinted, you might even be able to call their relationship roughly affectionate. But if all choices were possible, and not merely living ones, Killian would have given his other hand to talk to Sam Bellamy again. Just once, just for an hour, the two of them by the seafront here. Sam had always understood him with that sheer and marvelous clarity and compassion he gave to everyone so freely, but his close loved ones in particular, and it had been as easy as breathing to love Sam.

Indeed, as Killian could not forget, he had killed Hawkins, the _Imperator's_ old purser and his and Liam's mentor, because Hawkins had wanted to hand Sam over to the Navy and make terms to end their piracy, and led a mutiny of the still-loyal men in an attempt to do so. Yet Killian had noted to him that he had sworn to kill anyone who tried to hurt Sam, and then kept that promise, even when it came at the cost of a man to whom he had once been very close. _I had already killed my own father at that point, what was another?_ Hawkins had had a wife and an infant son, born just before they left England with Robert Gold. Sometimes Killian still wondered what had become of them. _Nothing you can change now._

He took a slow, painful breath, reminded himself that it would be too easy to spiral if he let too many of the old skeletons out of their closets, turned away, and was about to continue on his way to nowhere particularly when something caught his eye. A slight, cloaked figure that looked like a woman had just slipped out from one of the dockside houses and hurried down the quay, glancing nervously left and right and holding her hood tightly. It was clear that she expected to be pursued, and indeed a bare few moments later, another door opened and two large-sized individuals barreled out. They sped toward the woman with intent, ugly looks on their faces, hands on the hilts of their shortswords.

Killian hesitated agonizingly. After all, the last thing he needed was to be in the middle of another altercation, and he _had_ promised Regina that he would make no more trouble. But it went against every fundamental instinct in his body to turn a blind eye and walk away with a young lady in clear peril behind him, and before he could once again remind himself how stupid this was, he moved smoothly to intercept the two thugs, pretending to stumble right in front of them and forcing them to pull up. One of them called him several unflattering things in French (Killian only caught _fils d'un putain malade,_ though he was sure the rest of it was in a similar vein) and the other tried to shove past him, but at that, he sprang up. "Going somewhere, lads?"

He deliberately allowed his accent, which he had trained since adolescence to be correctly English instead of the Leinster Irish of his young childhood, to slip into it. This was because while Englishmen were instant beacons of trouble for any Frenchman on principle, they liked the Irish very slightly more, because they both hated the English just as much (the same principle that had first forged the Auld Alliance between France and Scotland, at the end of the thirteenth century). As well, the Irish were fellow Catholics, while the English remained heathenishly Protestant, and while the thugs glared at him, they did not do so with especial loathing, just annoyance for being interrupted. "Get out of our way, Paddy," one ordered. _"Maintenant."_

"I'm afraid I can't be doing that, if you won't leave the lass alone." Killian folded his arms, both to look more authoritative and to disguise his lack of a left hand. "Step on your way and bother someone else, eh?"

"It is none of your business." The taller one pushed Killian roughly, but he had planted his feet. "We have been paid to fetch her back. Move, or you will get the same."

"I don't think so." Killian had to wanted to draw attention by wearing a sword, as most cities had strict ordinances about openly carrying them, especially if you were not a soldier or part of a garrisoned regiment, but he had brought a dagger, which would do if needed. He moved his hand into his jacket to grip the hilt. Perhaps if he could delay these muttonheads long enough, the girl could just get on a ship and make it out of here while they were –

Unfortunately, the second man had twigged onto the same thing. He burst past Killian and his fellow, sprinted down the dock while shoving aside startled and angry onlookers, and reached the ship at the end, clearly about to climb on board. Killian remained where he was an instant longer, then shot after him, the other thug hot on his heels, and they all reached the spot at about the same time. Thug the First grabbed Killian's arms as the other prepared to clock him, remembered that if they both fought him they would let their prey get away, and tore back up the gangplank, leaving his compatriot to handle the pummeling. None was actually done, at least on his part, as Killian twisted sharply away and landed a punch of his own, then turned to see Thug the Second hauling the struggling girl over his shoulder. This was starting to attract attention, and a voice shouted indignantly, _"_ _Bâtards! Vauriens! CESSE IMM_ _É_ _DIATEMENT!"_

Killian would have liked nothing better than to do so, but duty still called. He ran at Thug the Second and head-butted him squarely in the small of the back, causing him to lose his grip on the girl, then whirled and threw Thug the First, as a simple matter of continuing his already-established momentum, into the murky green water of the harbor. If the panicked splashing that ensued was any indication, the bugger could not swim, and was in danger of sinking like a stone until a pair of nearby fishermen threw him their net and charitably pulled him out. The girl had picked herself up and was staring, but Killian yelled, "Run! _Courir!"_

Thug the Second seemed wary of getting too close to him, after the watery fate that had just befallen his partner in crime, and Killian grabbed a barrel from a nearby pile, launching it at him as if bowling for quoits. The effect was instant and spectacular. Thug the Second flew five feet in the air, landed smack on his arse, and was then flattened by the rolling barrel's fellows, bundled over the edge of the pier and headfirst into the weedy soup below. The fishermen looked at each other, decided that this one could shift for himself, and got out of there, leaving Thug the Second to cling to a slimy piling and shout for someone to pull him out.

Feeling it extremely wise to be out of there himself, Killian walked as fast as he could without running, up the quay and back onto the street, unable to stop himself wondering if those two idiots had been paid by the same high-level miscreant that was financing the Lost Boys. He did not, however, have to wonder long. A hand caught his sleeve, pulling him under the eave of a slate-shingled roof, and a voice hissed, "Monsieur!"

It was the girl he had – at least for the moment – liberated. Her hood had fallen down in the commotion, and he saw that she was about his daughter Geneva's age, maybe a year or two younger, with a long, intricate dark braid, big brown doe eyes, and the pale porcelain complexion of a wealthy woman who never went outside without a hat and parasol. Killian briefly thought she was going to kiss him or offer other tokens of her gratitude, and struggled to remember how to say, "You are a very lovely lass, but I'm a married man," in French, but she did not. Instead she said, in English this time, "Who are you?"

"I – ah – " It was natural that she would want to know the identity of the mysterious dark stranger who had swooped in out of nowhere to assist her, but still a problem. "Never mind that, are you all right?"

She studied him warily. "Yes. Fine. Are you working for my father too?"

"Father?"

"Armand Saint-Clair, of Montparnasse." Her lips tightened. "Are you?"

"No, I've never heard of him in my life. He's the one who sent those delightful gentlemen after you?"

"I expect so, yes." She kept looking at him, eyes dark and searching. "Why did you help me?"

"I. . .well. . ." Killian coughed and scratched behind his ear. "I saw them giving you trouble, lass, and I. . . I just didn't feel as if I was going to stand for it. I suppose you reminded me of my own daughter a bit, as well. Can you get away before they come back?"

"I – I think so." She seemed to be evaluating something, deciding whether to trust him. Then she said, "My name is Alix."

"Mademoiselle." Killian politely kissed her offered hand. "Is your ship still there?"

"It should be, I hope." Alix glanced down the docks, then dug in the purse at her waist. "Please, let me give you something for assisting me."

Killian was about to protest that she did not have to, but as he was utterly skint at the moment, he could use some disposable income, and she pressed several silver coins into his hand. Then before he could stop himself, seeing as she too had been trying to sneak out, he said, "Do you perhaps know who to bribe around here, to give one an. . . ah. . . chance at departure?"

"In fact, yes. Give Monsieur Jean-Paul Martel, the port master, a few livres and a box of candied violets, it worked for me." Alix looked at him curiously. "Are you going to the American colonies?"

Killian was furiously tempted to say yes. His family was back there, the dangerous mystery in which they were embroiled, and he could leave Regina – and Liam – behind once more, put off that reckoning for later, later, _later._ To buy time, he said, "Are you?"

"Yes. Philadelphia." Alix jumped at the sound of shouting from down the alley. "I should go."

"Philadelphia? My stepson might be there. Henry Swan and his family." Killian bit his tongue as he said it, wondering if it was a mistake to give her Henry's name, but for some reason, as she had done with him, he had decided to trust her. As the shouting started to come closer, he took her elbow and hurried her down the lane. "Right, lass. Time to go, indeed. Good luck."

Alix smiled slightly, then raised her hood and darted off without another word, as Killian made his own exit down another alley, until he was reasonably sure that he had not been spotted. He doubled around a few times to be sure, then set off at a casual trot, keeping his eyes peeled for anywhere that might sell candied violets.

By some stroke of well-overdue luck, he finally stumbled on them in a little shop offering fashionable Parisian delicacies, bought a box at a correspondingly extortionate price, and began to search this time for Regina. Hopefully she had made some headway on Monsieur Martel already, but if not, well, he could at least offer some useful information. He hadn't actually killed the thugs, though he was quite sure they would have deserved it if he had, so he had not added any more concrete wrongdoings to his account. He did hope that Armand Saint-Clair was not someone with the ability to do him ill in the future, but sod the wretch. If he was sending brutish henchmen to forcibly haul back his daughter, he was clearly not someone with whom Killian would ever see eye to eye.

It took him a while, but he finally collided with Regina, emerging from some grubby hole-in-the-wall with a disgruntled expression. He pulled her aside, acquainted her with his information (while neglecting to mention how he had gotten it) and thrust the box of candied violets at her, so she could get on with applying it in the proper location. It took quite a while, as well as several more close shaves, but the end result was that when the tide went out that evening, they went out with it, crammed aboard a small trader headed first for London, and then up through the Scandinavian and Baltic ports of the old Hanseatic League. Killian did not quite dare to believe in their deliverance, even as he watched Le Havre shrink behind them, but as it was a relatively short journey across the Channel and up the Thames, he could be setting foot on English soil tomorrow morning, for the first time since that fateful departure from Bristol in the early spring of 1715. He had a feeling that England was in no particular hurry to welcome him back.

He slept intermittently, squashed against grain sacks in the hold, and woke before dawn, with the whiff of rain, soot, shit, and smoke that could only mean London. He and Regina went on deck to watch as they made their slow way up the river in a headwind, the ghostly shapes of the docklands drifting by in the mist. Killian could just spot the Royal Hospital for Seamen at Greenwich on the opposite bank; the Royal Observatory was just on the hill above, likely even now occupied by some industrious sort applying themselves vigorously to the longitude problem. Further down the river, he could distantly make out the dome of Saint Paul's Cathedral, and beyond that would be Southwark, to the one side, and Westminster, to the other. He wondered where exactly they were going. If it was digging into Lady Fiona they were after, it would likely have to be somewhere around there.

They were put ashore near London Bridge in another half hour or so, and once up on the path that ran along the bank, stood there for a moment, looking down at the filthy children who scavenged along the river flats for anything valuable that might have fallen in – the mudlarks. Killian remembered doing this sort of thing a time or two himself, grimaced, and, trying not to inhale too much of the stench, turned away. "Right. We should get started."

Where exactly that was, they were still unsure, and there remained the fact that they could not simply march into the Exchequer or the Chancellor or the House of Lords, or anywhere else that might point them in the right direction. However, Regina had been a brothel madam on Antigua for a very long time, and in the course of her work, compiled extensive files of incriminating information on every Navy officer who passed through her premises and talked to her very lovely (and carefully trained) girls. All of these men were now retired or dead, of course, but they very likely had families, sons who had followed them into the service, or other obvious interest in not having the debauchery of their relatives become a matter of public record.

Thus they went to Whitehall, knocked until they made themselves such a nuisance that someone came to deal with them out of sheer exasperation, and – as Killian watched in considerable admiration despite himself – Regina elegantly threatened, coerced, and charmed their way past several levels of bureaucracy, caused a very amusing expression to appear on the face of a stout and elderly rear admiral who clearly remembered her, and finally achieved them a brief chance to look at some of the official ledgers and records. They had no idea if Lady Fiona would be in here or not, but the Murrays had to have some presence in the archives somewhere, especially if Gideon was governor of Charlestown.

As Regina warded off the clerks' various attempts to get back in the room, Killian flipped feverishly through the pages. He didn't even know what he was looking for – it was not as if Lady Fiona would have taken time to register her nefarious plot with the authorities, after all. There were arrival and departure records for the Navy ships leaving out of London, however, and sometimes a notable passenger or two was scribbled on the manifest, along with the name of its captain and its intended destination. If Lady Fiona had come through here with Liam, there might be at least some kind of a note of it. . . unless she'd used an alias or lied outright, of course, but still. . .

Killian was now months and months back in the records and knew he had gone too far – this was much earlier than Lady Fiona would have been here, this was a dead end, and he was about to slam the ledger shut in disgust. But then he noted something at the bottom of the list for April 1739, a few months before the official declaration of war against Spain. A departure of HMS _Griffin,_ under the command of Capt. M. Rogers of Bristol, for Bridgetown, Barbados. Aboard the ship was _Lord R. Gold,_ intended for a minor administrative post in the Leewards.

Killian stared at it until he was almost seeing double, heart hammering. He knew that being arrested for treason was not always the end of a nobleman's career, or even often. With enough money and influence, you could make almost any charges disappear, and Lord Archibald Hamilton had managed to be elected as a Member of Parliament and a Lord of the Admiralty after his release from prison for his Jacobite activities and sponsorship of piracy as governor of Jamaica. Hence, it would have been very difficult to get such unsubstantiated rumor as the re-establishment of the Star Chamber to stick, especially if you were as well-connected and ruthless as Gold. After all, to every appearance, he had been virtuously trying to stamp out piracy, and Woodes Rogers had likewise gotten himself a new term as governor despite his defeat in Nassau. Indeed, to see the names _Rogers_ and _Gold_ together raised Killian's hackles beyond all measure. He knew that Woodes' beloved brother, the one he had lost on his round-the-world voyage along with much else, had been named Matthew, and while this was of course wild conjecture, if this new Captain M. Rogers was a son of the governor. . . a son, perhaps, of the governor and Eleanor Guthrie, who had also turned to Gold's side just before the end of the war. . .

"What?" Regina said, seeing his face. "What?"

"Look at this." Killian shoved it under her nose, thinking of how she had asked him at their first meeting if Gold was still alive. "Look!"

Regina looked, seemed about to say it was nothing, and then went pale. "You think it's _him?"_

"I don't reckon there can be many other Lord R. Golds, can there?" Killian's heart felt as if it was about to burst from his chest. "If he's been in the Indies since last year – it strikes me how _very_ bloody well he would be positioned to, say, pass intelligence to Billy Bones that Flint and the rest of us are still alive. Also could be just as well positioned, if he knew where we were, to send the assassins after us in Savannah. We thought this whole time that Billy just up and decided to go off and do all this – well, what if he didn't? What if he was given a little _push?"_

Regina stared at him again. "So – what?" she said at last. "Gold's trying to kill all of you?"

"If I'm not mistaken, he's tried to do that at least once. Or ordered them to do a very good job of failing – which they did, because Flint and I killed them – so we'd know we were being hunted, but not why or from where." Killian's pacing was starting to turn frenetic. "That, or he just bloody wanted us to – "

Regina gripped him by the arm, which startled Killian enough that he, for the moment, actually stopped. "Listen to yourself," she said. "You're raving. Seeing monsters in the shadows. I agree that it might be him, but you have absolutely no proof that he's responsible for anything."

"If I wait for proof, it'll already be too late. Do you think Gold was ever going to just accept what we did to him, destroying everything just when it looked like his ultimate moment of triumph? He's probably spent these last two decades rebuilding his traps to a far bigger and better scale, no mistakes this time, accounting for all possibilities, while we lived happily and thought we were safe. We should have killed him. We should have left no stone unturned until he was dead, not counted on bloody _England_ to do it!"

Regina tightened her grip. "Killian. Listen to me. You can't just – we came here for Liam, remember? Liam."

"Aye," Killian said. _"Liam."_

Regina looked at him in surprise and wariness. Then she drew herself up. "My husband is in danger, we know this, we can _prove_ this, while this diversion about Gold is nothing but wild speculation and vengeful fantasies. Leave it, just forget it, don't – "

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? Me leaving my family to Gold's tender mercies, so we can do what _you_ want, make me feel your same pain at not having one! Once again, my whole world has to be _Liam!_ I thought that was your job, now. Believe me, I don't want it back!"

Regina stared at him as if she had never seen him properly before, and in the terrible, queasy silence that followed – broken only by the renewed pounding of the clerks on the office door – Killian himself wished he had not said it. Knew he was lashing out at her from a place of his own fear and desperation that his oldest and most dangerous enemy might still be alive, carefully coordinating everyone and everything he loved toward ruin, when he had so much more to lose than last time. Feeling trapped that of course it had turned on him like this: to choose between his old family or his new one. Had just been thinking of how he did not want to give everything up for Liam again, his sensitivity to the prospect. . . didn't want to just cut his brother loose and wish him a nice life, of course, but weighed against this. . .

They continued to stare at each other. Then Killian said, "I'm going to Barbados. You can come with me or not, but you had best not get in my way."

"You're just 'going to Barbados'?" Regina's eyes flared. "That's it, then? After I saved your hide in Le Havre and got us to London – "

"I saved my own hide in Le Havre, thanks, and I got us here as much as you did, so I'm afraid you don't get all the credit, love. I'll do whatever it takes, I don't care. I do understand you'll want to stay and look for Liam, but between you and me, I doubt he's around here any more. I don't know if Gold and his sister are in cahoots or they're determined to destroy each other, but either way, Lady Fiona isn't going to be loitering. As I said. Your choice."

"If they both know about Skeleton Island – "

"I wouldn't put it past either of them for this to be some sort of complicated lure to draw all of us there, but I can't be sure. You know what I'm going to do. Are you coming or not?"

Still, for a long moment, the silence remained. Then Regina, with considerable effort, broke their standoff. Looked down and nodded.

* * *

Yet again, nobody slept that night. Emma, Henry, and David took turns sitting up to keep watch, the hours of darkness seeming to stretch interminably and unendurably long, as Miranda, Violet, and the children, by the sounds of things, barely closed an eye either. Everyone was pale-faced and puffy-eyed by the time Monday morning finally consented to arrive; Henry normally worked Mondays at the print shop, but he did not appear in any haste to rush off through the dawn streets alone. They sat around the kitchen table, picking without appetite at their breakfast, as Miranda kept glancing in the direction of the front door. Rather than more assassins, though those appeared to be a regrettably repeat possibility, Emma knew she was worrying about Flint. She couldn't blame this, but Flint had told her that he might be a while making it back, after all. No need to assume the worst. _Yet, at any rate._

Emma pushed that thought aside, trying instead to think about what the seven of them could do in a comparatively small house all day without going completely stir-crazy. Yet danger or no danger, she didn't like doing nothing while someone was out there actively plotting against them, and around eleven o'clock that morning, she put down her hand of cards and said, "This is foolish. We shouldn't be cowering like scared rabbits down a burrow. We should be doing something."

"Maybe so," David said, with a look that suggested he had had the same idea. "I don't know exactly what, but – "

"We can figure it out." Emma got to her feet. "You and I should go. Henry, you stay here with Miranda and your family. I don't want to have to rely on Charlotte happening to hear a struggle and running over again."

"We _could_ invite her," Henry suggested. "She's a good shot, as we discovered last night, and you know I'm not terribly – "

"No," Emma said flatly. "Yes, she saved us once, but I don't want her around again until we know more about what she's doing – and who Jack is. It might be entirely innocent, or it might not. She still could have passed information on us, whether or not she meant to, or knew what the consequences would be as a result."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You're starting to sound like Grandpa."

"In this case, I'm not sure that's a bad thing." Emma looked at Violet. "You're the one who knows her the best, or at least what she's told you. Who's Jack?"

Violet, still looking unappreciative of these slanders upon her friend's character and motives, nonetheless decided, for the time being, to excuse them. "Her husband, I think."

"You think?"

"Well, she's never actually said, but the way she talks about him, I'd wager so. I don't know where he is, not Philadelphia, and she's never said exactly what it is he does, either." Violet gave a defensive shrug. "But that's hardly strange, especially when it's a war. We haven't known each other that long, why would she rush to tell me if it's sensitive? That doesn't mean she's a bad person, or they're up to no good."

"No," Emma said, "but it does mean they have at least some experience in keeping secrets and working in the sorts of places that value that as a skill, which means – "

"I'd not point fingers!" Violet interjected. "The lot of you being pirates for however many – "

Henry, who was looking extremely uncomfortable as he watched his mother and his wife argue, cleared his throat loudly, making everyone jump and glance around at him. "All right," he said, "we won't invite Charlotte over, at least for now, but we'll also keep the possibility in mind that she genuinely didn't have anything to do with this. Agreed?"

Everyone paused, then nodded, subsuming personal feelings in the face of the fact that they still needed to remain united if they were going to get through this. Emma and David pulled on jackets, boots, and weapons, preparing to depart, when Miranda unexpectedly stood up. "I'm coming with you."

"Are you sure that's a good – "

"Perhaps not," Miranda said crisply, "but I still am. It leaves Henry with one fewer person to have to defend, if our unfortunate new friends pay another call, and I want to know what happened to James. Be assured, if it comes to more shooting, I will not get in your way."

With that, and strict assurances that they would be home by nightfall, they set out. David had scrounged up a cart from somewhere so they did not have to walk in the muck – though knowing the state of Philadelphia's streets, it would scarcely be any faster, and for several minutes, they bumped along in silence. Then, now away from the house and thus feeling somewhat more free to speak her mind, Emma said, _"Do_ we think Charlotte was responsible?"

"I would be surprised if she did not have some hand in it, to good or ill result." Miranda looked over at her seriously. "But for all that, Mrs. Bell's intentions do not seem malicious to me. I cannot explain it, other than that she reminds me of myself, in some way I cannot quite put my finger on. I believe she was sincere in what she did for us last night. I owe my life to her, and I do not feel as if you should push Violet too hard over it. It is her children's lives as well that were saved by Charlotte's quick thinking, and excellent aim with a pistol."

"Yes, but if Charlotte was somehow responsible for that man being there in the first place – "

"I do not think she was," Miranda said, gently but very firmly. "Certainly not in the least intentionally. I will not deny that she is clearly keeping secrets. Yet as a family with a few of our own, do we really have every right to demand them arrantly from others?"

Emma opened her mouth, then closed it. She did not say anything more as they drove across the city to the print shop, informed Franklin that Henry would not be in today and the reason why, and received his indignant assurances that he would write a lengthy and scathing editorial about the disgraceful behavior of such reprobates imagining that the law did not apply to them, and urge the public to stringently condemn such terror and disorder. Emma was not altogether sure how much practical effect this would have, but she appreciated the gesture. When they had emerged from the printer's lair (Franklin with another rather hopeful flourish of his hat at Miranda) she said quietly, "Do you think there's anything to be had from returning to the house where we met our Jacobite contact? At least ascertain how the drop went?"

"He did say he'd kill us if we attempted to see his face," David pointed out. "And if it did go astray, I doubt we should draw more attention to ourselves by once more being spotted in the neighborhood. Emma, where you and Flint were planning to take the chest after you retrieved it – I'm sure we can think up an innocent reason to take a pleasant daytime drive along the shore. At least see if there are signs of a struggle."

Miranda went rather pale at these words, and Emma was reminded that last night was the first that she and Flint had spent apart since their reunion twenty years ago, that after so much turmoil and grief and suffering and separation, they had never again wanted to leave the other's side, and kept devotedly to it. Emma herself felt a qualm at the idea of what might await them out there. But either way, knowing was better than wild speculation, and would enable them to craft a more solid plan as a result. If it was the possibility of finding Killian's body out there, though. . . no wonder Miranda looked somewhat faint, and Emma squeezed her hand. "If you want me to go look first – "

"No," Miranda said. "I need to see myself, and I would never want you to have to tell me. Let's go."

David hesitated, then picked up the reins, and they headed south out of the city, following the Delaware River past the spot where they had lain in wait for the aborted sting, over the rough, rocky shorelands, and out to the remote point where their instructions had indicated them to take the money for the Jacobites to pick up. The closer they got, the harder Miranda gripped Emma's hand, until it was nearly painful, but Emma did not try to pull away, feeling their shared heartbeats hammering in their fingers. No sign of the _Saint Peter,_ not that she had expected the ship to hang around either way, and no way to tell if the dunes looked particularly disrupted. The wheels of the cart stuck and sank in the wet sand, and so they got out, David hanging behind to keep an eye on it, as Emma and Miranda foraged across the uneven, muddy ground, Emma having to hurry to keep up despite the older woman's physical frailties. Then they came around the spur of the headland, skidded down into a low, boggy tide plain, saw something – some _one –_ sprawled facedown among the wrack, half-heaped in sand and pebbles and broken driftwood, and Miranda made a terrible sound, as if a blood-curdling scream uttered only in a choked gasp under her breath. Then she pushed past Emma, and, filthy skirts flying, ran.

Emma froze, then bolted after her, hurtling the slimy log in her way and feeling her own fear clench like an icy fist around her throat. By the time she reached Flint as well, Miranda had already knelt beside him and rolled him onto his back, hands frantic to stanch the deep, ugly gash in the side of his head, still making that terrible noise every time she breathed but not hesitating an instant in what must be done. She tore some clean cloth out of her petticoat and began to clean the encrusted sand and dirt and salt away, hands only shaking slightly, with a composure that Emma doubted she could have achieved if it was Killian lying there. She stood up to yell for David, and he came scurrying up, panting, then stared when he saw Flint. "Is he – "

"He's breathing," Miranda said, not looking up as she tore off another length of her petticoat and fashioned an impromptu bandage for the wound. "The foolish man, going off alone like that – he's lucky his skull is so bloody thick! When he wakes up, I'll kill him properly myself!"

Emma and David, with a considerable effort, hoisted Flint between them and carried him back to the cart. By the time they got him loaded in, fresh blood had begun to stain the dressing, and they exchanged a grim look; it was a long and bumpy journey back to Philadelphia, and crashing and thumping over every obstacle in the way could not be good for him. Yet it was just as plain that he urgently needed more care, had been out here for hours already, and a large number of his pistols appeared to be missing. He had gone down fighting, at least, but one man of nearly seventy, even the famed and feared Captain Flint, against an entire ship's crew of soldiers and smugglers – indeed, he was terribly fortunate not to be dead. All they could do was hope that he was stubborn enough to stay that way.

They began to lead the horse carefully back across the sand and toward the muddy road. Miranda sat in the cart, carefully holding Flint's head in her lap to prevent more jostling, as they climbed the embankment and began to toil back toward the city. At last, in another hour, they reached it. It was inevitable, however, that someone would take notice of their burden, and the redcoat captain at the gate frowned down at Flint's prone form. "Who exactly is this, madam?"

"My husband," Miranda said. "He's hurt, you can see that. Please, let us get him to a physician."

"Coming from the south, were you?" The redcoat considered them shrewdly. "How exactly did this happen, Mrs. . .?"

Miranda hesitated. "Barlow."

"How was your husband injured, Mrs. Barlow?"

"I don't know," Miranda said, which was, after all, the truth. "Please – "

"We've had a queer night here. Reports of attacks, rumors that it was to distract from some sort of rendezvous down the coast. Your husband would not be able to tell us anything about this, would he?"

"He can't tell anyone anything right now!" Miranda said angrily. "Captain, do you think this is a remotely suitable time or place to – "

"Sir," David interrupted. "Speaking as a man who shares your rank and service – Captain David Nolan, formerly of HMS _Windsor,_ lord sheriff of Charlestown – surely you can allow Mrs. Barlow to tend to her husband before you commence interrogating her? I have an address down by the red-lamp district that would be more fruitful for you, anyway. If you would – ?"

Miraculously, David's upstanding-citizen aura worked one more time, they were allowed through with no more questions, and rather than taking Flint to one of the charity hospitals – which were for lepers, cripples, paupers, and the like, and usually filled with filth and despair – they conveyed him hastily to the print ship, exchanged a quiet word with Franklin, and carried him up to the small apartment above. It was not much, but there was a bed with reasonably clean sheets, some water for washing, and as Miranda pulled up a stool, carefully unwound the stained strips of her petticoat, and began to dab at the crusted dark blood, Flint groaned, the first sound he had made. His eyelashes fluttered, but did not quite open. "Where. . . where'm. . ."

"James, shh, it's me, you're safe." Miranda rinsed her handkerchief as David reappeared, hauling two buckets of fresh water from the courtyard pump. "Lie still."

Flint groaned again, and a slit of woozy green showed under his eyelids. "Head aches. . . like the devil."

"No wonder," Miranda snapped. "You only went and got it split open. James, do be quiet, I'm working."

Emma let out a shuddering breath of relief; if Flint had regained consciousness and was grumbling, and Miranda felt confident enough of his survival to rebuke him for recklessness, the worst was probably over. Miranda had certainly patched him up from any number of unfortunate injuries before, and she accepted the bottle of brandy that Franklin fetched up, used it to swab the gash while Flint swore loudly and Emma held his legs down, and packed it with clean wool and bandaged it with a linen turban like an Indiaman's. Only then did she wash her bloody hands, sink back with a shuddering sigh, and ask, quietly but with unmistakable anger, "James, _what_ was that about?"

Flint grimaced. "Took the chest. Met. . . the ship. Not my fault. . . they tried. . . to kill me."

"Yes," David said. "Seemed to be a lot of that going around last night."

Flint looked briefly as if he was set to burst out of bed on the spot, and they hastened to assure him that everyone was all right (deciding not to mention Charlotte until later). He fell back on the pillows with an inventive string of curses, then said, "They got. . . the money. Then decided that. . . I was no longer needed. . . in any capacity. I took out. . . a few, but one. . . caught me with a shovel, and. . ." He grimaced, indicating his head. "Must have thought. . . that did the job. No idea. . . where the bastards are now. I'd guess. . . halfway back to Charlestown."

"Charlestown?" Emma repeated. "I thought you said they'd be going to Italy, to meet up with James Stuart and his – "

"Aye. So I thought then. But now I'm inclined to think. . . it was a test." Flint grimaced again. "If the ship arrived in Charlestown with the money on it, Murray would know. . . that we had followed instructions and everything. . . went as it was supposed to. If it didn't – "

Emma, Miranda, and David exchanged looks. "Do you still think the money is intended for the Jacobites, then?"

"Oh, I do. But Murray needed proof that we – ah." Flint winced horribly and stopped talking for a long moment. "Cooperated," he finished finally. "Now he has it. So I'm not sure. . . how killing us. . . would fit in. At least now."

"Yes, well. About that." With that, Emma explained what had happened last night, and their growing conviction that someone apart from Gideon was the one trying to have them murdered. He wanted them alive, at least until they had made themselves useful, but someone seemed to be working at cross-purposes against both their family and Lord Murray alike, pursuing some shadowy agenda of their own. Given their history and extensive list of enemies, it could be just about anyone, which was hardly heartening. Finally, with black humor, Emma said, "You don't suppose Jennings has somehow come back to life, do you?"

Miranda shuddered, eyes closed and lips white, and she at once regretted it. "You know I was just – "

"Not like him anyway." Flint coughed. "Fucking bastard. . . would prefer to torment us face to face. This, though. This would be the work of someone. . . much more subtle."

There was an ominous silence. A name had instantaneously occurred to Emma, but she reminded herself that there were no grounds for it. Instead she said, "So if we've proved our compliance to Lord Murray, but nearly got killed by someone else for it, what the hell do we do now? I'm not sure I'd feel safe leaving Miranda behind after this, and not any safer bringing the whole family along. Maybe if David and I go back to Charlestown and try to find what Murray – "

Here she stopped, waiting for Flint's inevitable complaints about David and general sense of offense about his continued presence, but they didn't come. Rather wondering how hard, exactly, the smugglers had hit him, Emma said, "James?"

"Aye. Maybe." The words seemed to come hard for more reasons than just pain. Flint stared up at the ceiling. "You're all right, you know. I am old."

Emma blinked.

"I _am_ old, and I didn't have any bloody business. . . thinking that I could take on an entire ship single-handed. Nearly getting myself killed. . . was the least I could expect for it. This whole time, I've been determined. . . that nobody can call me old, and so. . ." Flint fell silent again, briefly. "And David's here being so bloody helpful and chivalrous and fatherly. . . of course you're coming to rely on him more. If that's – that's what you want – "

"My dear," Miranda said wryly. "Are you sure that you are feeling quite yourself?"

Flint gave her a look that nonetheless was well aware that he had deserved that. "I'm no use at the moment, am I? And you. . . if Emma wanted. . . if you wanted. . ."

Emma bit her lip, both amused and deeply touched. "James," she said again. "None of us can deny it's been good to have David around. But he. . ." She looked somewhat awkwardly at David, who nodded graciously, encouraging her to continue. "He can't replace you. You're still who we need, the head of our family, even if you can't fight as well as you used to. That's not the only use you had to us, and it never was."

Flint let out a long, slow breath, coughing and looking away. His eyes seemed rather bright, and he took a moment to compose himself. Then he said gruffly, "That's something, I suppose."

"Oh, James, for heaven's sake," said Miranda. "Tell your daughter that you love her."

Flint looked briefly as if he might prefer to be hit with the shovel again, but after another moment, glanced back at Emma. "Aye," he said, and harrumphed. "Well. I do."

Emma paused, then leaned forward and kissed his unbruised cheek. Flint had fallen rather backwardly into being her father, as Miranda had become her mother first and foremost, and sometimes she still could not help but wonder if he resented the obligation. He had been her mentor since her first arrival on Nassau, but that too had originally been for Miranda's sake, and their relationship, while she knew that he would more or less protect her, had been a long way from warm. And yet if nothing else, Flint's constant grousing about David was helping her realize how deeply he valued what they had become, not just for the grandchildren he clearly adored, but as Miranda had said to her the other night, for Emma herself as well. She had to brush a hand across her own eyes, then straightened up. "We can't go anywhere until you're at least a bit mended. Besides, if we fulfilled one part of Gideon's infernal bargain, I'm not so sure we should go running back to him to ask for more. He wants to talk, he can come to us."

"Aye, that's my girl," Flint said, with a grim smile. "I can promise you, I will not be in that snot-nosed brat's presence again without. . . immediately trying to strangle him. And if his henchmen think they've killed me, that gives us some time to come up with a new plan. Finding Killian is still our priority. . . but I don't think Murray has him somewhere he can immediately hurt him if we disobey. I'm presently more interested in the question of. . . who could try to have us killed in both Savannah and Philadelphia. Not Jennings, for obvious reasons. . . but. . ."

Emma hesitated, wondering whether to mention her earlier thought. Finally she said, very delicately, "Gideon Murray's father, perhaps?"

Heads turned sharply. "What did you say?"

"Gideon told David and me that he was Lord Robert Gold's son, his real son, remember? His aunt Fiona adopted him. But he just said that Gold had been disgraced, he never actually said that he was dead. I think we can all agree that Gold would have motivation, means, and ability to ruin our lives, if he could find any way to do it. I'm not sure he knows that Gideon is his son, they can't have had much contact, and Gold was away from England when he was born. If all he knew of Lord Murray was that he was a dangerous young rival with a too-keen interest in Skeleton Island, which we can be quite sure Gold wants for himself, he could very easily plant spies and informants among his men. Some of whom would then be ideally placed to turn on us."

Everyone frowned at Emma, but clearly in alarm rather than thinking that this was not possible. "Christ," Flint said at last. "So what are we supposed to do, if so? Contrive a touching father-son reunion? You said Murray hates his father. . . he might just stab him on the spot." He brightened. _"Do_ you think he'd stab him on the spot? Could we possibly be so lucky?"

"Not sure. Murray knows that Gold is his father, but I don't think he knows anything about him or if he's still in the Americas or the Indies somewhere. Gold, meanwhile, might know where Murray is, but not that he's his son. If we could tell Murray this, if we could find some actual trace of Gold, he'd have bigger things to worry about than blackmailing us or fundraising for the Jacobites. Not to mention, I think we, to say the bloody least, would like to know that too."

"Aye," Flint said, "but I see several holes in this plan. Those being. . . we know absolutely nothing about where to start looking for Gold. . . if he's even the one behind all this. . . and where in the entire New World he might be. In addition, I'm laid up. . . we've nearly all been killed once and that only since we got here. . . and of all of us, you and David – possibly Henry, if he'd feel safe leaving his family, I sure fucking wouldn't – are the only ones fit for more travel and misadventure. So how do you propose. . . we even start to go about – "

"You know," Emma said. "I think it's time we find out just who Jack Bell is."


	13. XIII

For the longest moment, as he stared, Sam could not rid himself of the inexplicable feeling that he knew this bloke from somewhere, and that the connection was not at all pleasant. All he knew for certain was that he really did not care to make a closer acquaintance, and that if it was the same to everybody, he'd just be on his way now, thanks. Not of course that he was going to be given the chance to do that, and he remained stuck to the spot like a bump on a log, as one of the soldiers dug him in the back with the butt of his musket. "You heard him. In."

Slowly, discovering that his feet suddenly did not want to work with him anymore after almost twenty years of profitable coexistence, Sam stumbled over the threshold, Jack was pushed in after him, and Rogers brought up the rear, pulling the door shut with a clunk that sounded distinctly ominous. "My lord," he said, with a crisp bow. "I apologize for the visit at this late hour, but I think you'll find – have I interrupted you?"

"Not at all, dearie, not at all." The man gestured. "Mr. Hunt and I had only just gotten started."

A considerable shock flashed through Sam at these words, which strengthened as he whirled around and beheld the _other_ young man in the room, perched uncomfortably on the davenport and balancing an untouched cup of tea on his knees. Sam and Nathaniel stared at each other for an excruciating moment, both doing their utmost not to blurt anything out loud – but they might as well have shouted, that reaction of thunderstruck recognition being just as good. "Mr. Hunt," the man said – _my lord,_ Rogers had called him, lord of what, Lord who? "Why don't you introduce us to your friend here?"

"Cocker," Sam interrupted, hoping Nathaniel would get the drift. "James Cocker."

"Ah – yeah." Nathaniel shot a wild look between him and Jack, shut his still-open mouth, and nodded smartly. "That's him. James Cocker."

"And then this one would be?"

"His name is Richard," Matthew Rogers said, his sharp eyes lingering on Sam and Nathaniel; he had clearly caught the stumble. "Richard _Jones,_ Your Excellency."

"Is it indeed?" The lord turned to Jack with that crocodile smile. "And am I to gather, given your presentation here, that your father's name is Killian?"

Jack jerked his head in a movement barely qualifying as a nod.

"Forgive my rudeness," the lord went on, in a tone that clearly implied more rudeness would be forthcoming, forgiven or otherwise. "Your father and I are. . . old friends. My name is Gold. Lord Robert Gold, the honor is mine."

A second, even more considerable shock jolted through Sam. He knew that name, had no reason to expect friendship or even remotely good things from it, and while he was burning to ask Nathaniel why the devil he had been sent (or abducted, probably) from Havana, the situation could not have been more delicate. Nathaniel, of course, knew perfectly bloody well who Sam really was and who his father was, that Jack was the Spanish agent they had been saddled with back in Cuba, that they were supposed to be tracking down Skeleton Island for said Spaniards if Nathaniel wanted to still be alive in six months, and all about the rest of Sam's family and what he had tried to barter in exchange for guaranteed protection. Obviously Sam did not think that his best friend was going to open his mouth and sell him out on the spot, but Lord Robert Gold was a caliber of monster far beyond anything either of them had any experience with. This was the man who had destroyed Dad and Uncle Liam's lives in the first place, and very nearly done much worse to the whole world. How could he be here, he _couldn't –_

"Well," Gold said, when the nasty silence lingered. "Do sit. Matthew, my boy, how was the journey from Antigua? This is earlier than I expected to see you."

"There's a reason for that, sir," Rogers said. "Rumors of some Spanish miscreant wreaking havoc around Nevis. I was dispatched to ascertain the truth of the matter, and collected Mr. Cocker and Mr. Jones on the way. Mr. Jones was then most illuminating on the subject of the culprit. A man named João da Souza, evidently. Portuguese, in the employ of Madrid."

Nathaniel twitched again.

"Oh?" Rogers glanced at him. "Mr. – Hunt, was it? Have you crossed paths with Captain da Souza yourself?"

"I – probably not." Nathaniel smiled weakly. "Thought I recognized the name for a moment, but no, I don't know him."

Rogers' eyes remained on him, flicking once more between him and Sam, as – when nobody sat down as ordered – Gold looked at the soldiers, who raised their muskets. Drinking tea was thus decided to be preferable to being shot, and Sam and Jack sank extremely stiffly onto the davenport on either side of Nathaniel. Throwing a tense look at his compatriot, Sam saw that Jack was almost rigid with restrained fury, fingers tapping uncontrollably on his knee, as if any second he would leap up and go for Gold's throat with bare hands or teeth. While this would be quite spectacular to watch, and also quite satisfying, it would undoubtedly get them thoroughly killed, and Sam tried to catch Jack's eye and silently talk him down. He couldn't exactly reach across Nathaniel to hold Jack back without being bloody obvious about it.

The three young men sat there like mutinous moles popped out of a hole, as Nathaniel gave Jack a healthy proportion of side-eye – after all, the last he knew of, Jack was their more or less sworn enemy. He then shot another look at Sam, clearly asking how the last three weeks had gone with _this_ maniac in tow, but Sam shook his head. It was already too dangerously apparent that they knew each other, and he had a terrible feeling that Gold was about to start really sinking his teeth in. Just as being thrown overboard had seemed preferable to flogging, now flogging seemed preferable to a cozy chinwag with the actual devil.

A servant arrived in a few minutes with a heavily laden tray, as Gold resumed his seat in the handsome striped-silk armchair, and Matthew sat down in a matching but slightly less ostentatious chair to his right, the vizier preparing to advise the sultan. The tea was poured, the fresh-baked crumpets split and spread with clotted cream and strawberry compote, and Sam's painfully empty innards squirmed with longing. Sensing him staring, Gold raised an eyebrow. "Do feel free to help yourself, Mr. Cocker."

"I'm not hungry," Sam said loudly, as his stomach growled fit to wake the dead.

"Of course you aren't." Gold seemed amused. "Fed well on the ship, then?"

Sam looked pointedly at Matthew, who gazed inscrutably back. Unable to decide whose face he wanted more egg on, he finally said again, even louder, "I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself." Gold stirred his tea with a silver spoon. "Well. Now that we are all present, we can get on with discussing a large proportion of the matters which have been sadly – "

"I'd like to invite you to eat a large proportion of my arse." Jack spoke for the first time, in a voice close to a snarl. "Or at least get on with shooting us, rather than dragging out this complete farce of a – "

Sam, who very much did not want anyone to get on with shooting them, shot Jack another look and shook his head vigorously.

"Angry young man, aren't you?" Gold inspected Jack as if he were a mildly interesting curio. "Though if Hook _is_ your father, I can see where that comes from. Is that what he told you, Captain Rogers? Who's the other one, then?"

"That is indeed what he told me," Matthew said, stirring his own tea but never taking his eyes off Jack. "Albeit after some persuasion. As for the other, I'm not quite sure. It was my impression, however, that he and Mr. Cocker were. . . particular friends."

Rogers' inflection of the word _particular_ left no one in any doubt what he meant by it, and Nathaniel's jaw dropped, head swiveling like a searchlight to stare at Sam, as Sam experienced an overwhelming desire to disappear into the davenport cushions. "We're not," he blurted out. "Barely know each other at all, really."

Rogers smiled, clearly not buying a word of it. "Mr. Hunt, does my assessment surprise you? How do you and Mr. Cocker know each other, then?"

"We, ah, we." Nathaniel could transparently be observed fishing for a lie. "Know each other a bit, yeah."

Gold, who had been watching these clumsy attempts at deception with the air of a schoolmaster disappointed in a particularly imbecilic pupil, cleared his throat. "Permit me to speed this along somewhat. Mr. Hunt arrived at the governor's mansion in Havana a little over three weeks ago, in company with a young man described as Captain James Flint's grandson, both in pursuit of a Spanish spy carrying vital intelligence about Britain's future plans in the war. As I, obviously, have informants in Güemes' household, the better not to be taken off guard by a situation such as this, they quickly decided that Mr. Hunt should be forwarded along to me. We were not expecting to see his companions _quite_ so soon, but this, then, must be them. Whichever one of you is Hook's son is also, I'm wagering, Flint's grandson, and the other the Spanish agent. So. . . if previous statements hold true, that makes _you,_ Mr. Cocker, the Spanish spy."

Rogers' sandy eyebrows nearly flew off his head. He stared narrowly at Sam, as if certain that nobody could actually be that gormless, and he must have been up to some diabolically clever deep-cover act the entire time. While it was oddly flattering to have him think that Sam was a dastardly genius rather than a bumbling idiot, this did not affect any improvement in their current position, and likely in fact made it worse. "Sir," Rogers said. "Sir, I thought he was just a – "

"No matter, Captain. A spy would, of course, be skilled at dissemblance and misdirection. If he _is_ the one." Gold turned back to Sam and added something in Spanish. _"Si?"_

Sam blinked. "Er. . . what?"

"Surely, as a Spanish agent, you speak the language? Your employment would be rather difficult otherwise." Gold took a bite of his crumpet, leaving a bit of strawberry compote on the corner of his mouth like blood. "So what would your answer to that be?"

Sam did his utmost not to look at Jack for help, but at this Nathaniel, who plainly could not understand why they had not just come out with it, pointed at Jack anyway. "Oh, for Christ's sake. _He's_ the Spanish spy. Now how about you shut up and leave Sam alone?"

There was a hideous pause. Gold could not have looked more delighted if he had been appointed Supreme Ruler of the Universe on the spot, while Matthew's knuckles went white on the arms of his chair. _"Sam?"_ Gold repeated. "Haven't you assured me, as well as Captain Rogers, that your name is James?"

"That is my name," Sam said feebly. "My middle name."

Gold dabbed away the compote with a napkin. "Samuel James," he remarked. "And who exactly would you be named after? I would hazard a guess that the answer includes both Captain Bellamy and Captain Flint. So that means _you're_ Hook's son? The apple clearly fell a long way from the one-handed tree."

Nathaniel shot a horrified look at Sam, only now realizing the ramifications of his slip of the tongue, as Sam scrambled to think of something to say and only came up with a wall of nothing. Gold, meanwhile, had turned to scrutinize Jack. "You, now – I must say, you have the look of a Bellamy yourself. Black Sam's son, perhaps? Who's your mother, Miss Swan as well? Those three shared like a Turkish harem, didn't they?"

Jack started to rise to his feet, only to be stopped by the cocking of half a dozen muskets from the soldiers standing guard behind Gold and Rogers' chairs. He was visibly vibrating with rage, and it took a clear and tremendous effort to sit back down. "As a matter of fact," he growled. "No. No, my father was as foul, evil, and depraved as only the Royal Navy can make them."

"In that case, you're clearly much more like your father than Mr. Jones – I think we can all drop the pretense and acknowledge that that one _is_ Mr. Jones, not you – is like his." Gold sat back with an expression of infinite enjoyment. "I don't blame Captain Rogers for originally concluding that, though. It was quite clever of him to guess at all that one of you was Hook's spawn, and I still sense a fascinating story about how the pair of you ended up on the same side. But if you _are_ a Bellamy, Richard – and we can likewise agree that's not your real name either – it doesn't surprise me in the least that you wound up attached to a Jones."

Jack sat unnaturally still, eyes burning like dark coals. Finally he said, "Is there a point to this, or do you just love the sound of your own voice?"

"Of course there's a point." Gold sipped placidly from his teacup. "Samuel here is the offspring of some of the biggest traitors ever known to the English crown, and you, by the sound of things, are actively colluding with the Spaniards – who, it may have escaped your recollection, are presently at war with said English crown. My understanding is that you promised to find Skeleton Island for Güemes and company, Mr. Jones, if they would set you at liberty and protect your family. Your failure would cost the life of Mr. Hunt. Is that correct?"

Sam felt as if he had been stricken with a sudden case of lockjaw. He wrenched his teeth apart and said furiously, "Yes."

"Pardon me for saying so, but I suspect that if you had the faintest clue how to actually find the place, you would not be waffling around aimlessly in the middle of the Leewards. I, of course, have removed your friend from Spanish custody, so _they_ cannot apply penalties to him for your inadequacy, but it does leave us with all manner of new possibilities. Make no mistake, the prospect of Skeleton Island intrigues me as much as anyone, but I have already set other pieces in play toward that end. You recall a man named Billy Bones? I don't suppose you would."

"You," Sam said. _"You_ bloody told Bones about this – this whole thing, and sent him up to buy Mr. Kerr's maps on Nevis."

"Oh, I did a great deal more than that, dearie." Gold grinned. "But that was part of it, yes. In any event, I have Mr. Bones and his tedious but useful grudge against your grandfather covering the Skeleton Island end of things, I don't really need you for that. So – "

"If you think I'm telling you where to find my family, you – "

"I expect I could make you tell me quite a bit, if I put my mind to it. But I don't need you for that either. I have informants and assistants and agents embedded in nearly every city in the Colonies by now. For quite some time, they have been devoted to the project, on my orders, of finding Captain Hook and his family. Usefully, that includes Flint, as you have just confirmed for me, so it was very easy to promise Mr. Bones that I would arrange Flint's convenient demise if he would play his part. Your family tried to stop me from re-founding the Star Chamber, and I have to say, I've decided that they were quite right. Why try to resurrect an old institution with all its shortcomings and limitations and archaic rules, all its troublesome associations, when I could wipe the slate clean and start from scratch? I have my own society now. My own rules."

"Oh?" Sam tried to keep his tone light and casual. "And what's this one called, then?"

"Surprisingly good attempt, dearie, but it's none of your business. Merely know that I've become far, far more powerful than back in the benighted days of yore. I can pull any string, twitch any web, make any deal, grant any favor – or not. I really do have your lot to thank for it. If they hadn't so energetically opposed my earlier attempts, I would never have gotten to where I am now. So you see, Mr. Jones, there isn't anything you can offer me that I don't already have. Except the one. I don't like to leave loose ends, and your parents have always been. . . interfering. If they knew you were here, and in danger, that might induce them to turn up, mightn't it?"

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it.

"Unless, of course, you fear they would have better things to do than risking themselves for you?" Gold went on, with wickedly precise intuition. "I must say, I'm not sure I'd make a particular effort to rescue you either, but I know the way your parents think. I doubt they'll be able to resist. And I _have_ been very much looking forward to seeing them again, especially your dear old dad. So yes. Just sit there like a good lad. Oh, and I don't believe we need Mr. Bellamy, you can shoot him."

This order was given so offhandedly that nobody moved at all for a moment. Then Sam reacted by sheer instinct, diving across the davenport and tackling Jack off it, just as the boom and kick of two muskets in the small drawing room nearly deafened them, a thick plume of smoke wafted over the tea tray, and two heavy lead slugs tore into the upholstery exactly where Jack had just been sitting. Nathaniel yelled and dodged the other way, arms over his head, as Sam braced for the lot of them to be blown up at any second. He was shocked, therefore, to hear Matthew bloody Rogers of all people shout, "Sir! No!"

Gold glanced at him, hand still raised in preparation of ordering a second volley – once they peeled Sam off, presumably, as he wasn't much good as bait if he was dead. "No?"

"If Mr. – Bellamy is indeed a Spanish spy with personal interest to Güemes, it is wasteful in the extreme to kill him before questioning him." Rogers took a step. "I realize that you said you have an informant in the governor's household already, but that only gives you a scattered insight or two into his personal dealings. Mr. Bellamy's intelligence is likely much more up to date, and much more comprehensive, especially as it relates to our plans for Cartagena. I believe it wise to return him to my custody."

"Indeed?" By the look on Gold's face, he could either have been impressed at this evidence of political guile from his young protégé, or he could have ordered Jack to be shot just to see how everyone would react. "That _is_ true, I suppose."

"Yes, sir. And if I may add, I observed aboard the _Griffin_ that Mr. Bellamy has considerable aversion to seeing Mr. Jones hurt – in fact, it tends to spur him to rather reckless and violent acts. If that was to be put to further use – "

"A Bellamy do reckless and violent things to protect a Jones? In my experience, it was usually the other way around." Gold finally lowered his hand, nodding at the soldiers to stand down. Speaking to Sam, he added, "Your dear father set half the Caribbean afire because he was mad at me, and the other half, touchingly, for Captain Bellamy's sake. They _were_ very fond of each other, those two – even more than your mother? I've always wondered if she ever felt second-best. So good to see it carried on in the younger generation."

Sam, who became very aware just then that he was still lying on top of Jack, rolled off quickly, but remained planted between him and Gold, staring up at the bastard with as much icy disdain as he could possibly muster. Knowing him, it wasn't much, even as he did not like the direction the conversation was going. Be kept alive as a trap for his parents or as a punching bag to make Jack talk – either option did not sound in the least fanciable. _Why is it that when he picks fights, I'm the one who gets hit?_ To judge from the renewed throbbing in his back, he had broken open his whip welts, and he could also sense Nathaniel staring at him again, unable to fathom why Sam had just jumped in front of multiple guns on behalf of their adversary. The nasty silence made an even more nasty reappearance. Then Sam got to his feet and said to Gold, "Not that this bothers you in the least degree, but you're a really terrible person."

Gold raised an eyebrow, but did not otherwise react. "And you're a surprisingly spirited young man. I admire that. Well, this doesn't need to be bloody. Shall we make a deal?"

"What _deal,_ you evil git?"

"Captain Rogers wants to keep your. . . friend alive for questioning. He's also noted that this might be easier if we were to beat you a bit, but frankly, it is rather crude, and I don't want you too damaged. What say you were to cooperate with me, and neither of you would be hurt? Or," Gold added, with a pointed look at Jack, "you can try to brawl your way through me, Captain Rogers, the dozen men in this room, my household guard, the streets of Bridgetown, and the entire crew of the _Griffin._ I'm sure that would be entertaining, if not so much when it ended."

Sam sensed Jack standing angrily behind him, having gotten to his feet as well and clearly all too eager to go to town on these feculent execrating arseholes, but if Jack had thus far protected him for his reasons and by his methods, Sam had to do the same. He reached back and put a restraining hand on Jack's wrist, then looked coolly down at Gold – face to face, miserable plotting bugger though he might be, he was shorter than both of them. "Fine," he said. "For now. We don't try anything, and you don't hurt us."

"Very well, Mr. Jones." Gold smiled and offered his hand, and Sam shook it with two fingers. "I'll have someone show you upstairs. You must be tired after all your adventures. Separate bedchambers, or is that a further cruelty? I am, you know, always a supporter of true love."

Sam could feel his ears burning again. He just stood with his arms crossed, trying to match Jack's supremely haughty and disinterested air, until the servant arrived to escort them and Nathaniel upstairs. The upper floors of Gold's mansion were dim and cool, walls lined with beautiful paintings and sculptures and other such treasures that Sam felt sure he had acquired to stash here like a dragon's hoard. The servant stopped in front of one door, showed Nathaniel through it, led Sam and Jack further down, and gestured at another one with an expression that made it extremely clear that he preferred not to think about what they might do behind it. Naturally. Work for the evilest wee bastard in the entire New World, have a fit over the idea of two blokes together. Logical.

While Sam was opening his mouth, not sure if he was going to tell the servant that he was mistaken, or that they were going to spend all night enthusiastically breaking every rule in the Book of Leviticus, Jack seized him by the arm and pulled him through, slamming the door in the servant's face and turning the key. He then prowled around the entire room – a handsome high-ceilinged chamber, with furniture upholstered in moiré and a tall four-poster bed – clearly in search of a spy, an asp in a basket, a Puritan minister, or some other instrument of instant destruction. Evidently finding none, he whirled back on Sam. "You can't get us trapped here! You should have let me – "

"Should have let you what, make it halfway across the veranda before they shot you or dragged you off for more special attention from our good mate Matthew?" Sam was very tired and in pain and not in the mood for Jack Bellamy's nonsense. He sat down on the dresser stool. "Obviously, we need to get out of here. But we need to think about how, and I'm not leaving Nathaniel behind. He's been my best friend since we were kids, and I'm the reason he's here, whether in Havana or Bridgetown. We don't just leave him for Gold to play with before eating."

As Jack opened his mouth, presumably to argue or to point out that Nathaniel had given them away, Sam snapped, "Just because you don't care for anybody or have any loyalty to anyone aside from three people, or whatever it is, doesn't mean I do. Besides, you are not going to defeat Lord Robert Gold by punching his henchmen. It's just not going to happen. I reckon that's pretty much exactly what he wants and is expecting you to do, so he can point out that our deal is now broken and do whatever the hell he pleases. It's my whole family that's in danger if Gold succeeds in luring them here – do you really think I'm not taking this seriously, or that I'm being a coward about it? They will probably all die! I am taking it bloody seriously!"

His voice had risen to the brink of a shout, and he forced it back down – there were bound to be enough people listening at keyholes in this house, he didn't need to make it any easier for them. He and Jack stared at each other for a long, frozen moment, until Jack finally looked away, the hint of a flush climbing his elegant, sun-browned cheekbones. "No," he said grudgingly. "I don't think you're being a coward."

Sam, who had been prepared for precisely the opposite answer, was caught off guard. He snapped his mouth shut hard enough to hear his teeth click. Then he said, "Oh."

Jack blew out a slow breath and sat down on the bed, running his hands through the long black locks that had escaped from his ponytail. "Just let me punch Rogers at least once before this is over."

"Be my guest," Sam said. "But not right now. Besides, if we have any hope of getting out of here, it's with him."

Jack looked at him disbelievingly. "He hates us."

"No." Sam looked down. "I don't think he does, exactly. Right now we're in his way, and he's treating us accordingly. I'm not sure, but I think he's Woodes Rogers' son – the old governor of Nassau, the one who brought down the pirates' republic. And he's only around our age, so I'm guessing his mother was Rogers' second wife, Eleanor Guthrie. Mum and Grandpa have told me a bit about her, she was. . . she was a piece of work. If all of this is so, then of course Matthew's completely devoted to the Navy and wanting to follow the rules and prove himself worthy. You heard Gold back there – 'Matthew, my boy.' Probably acts like his dad, has been sympathetic to him, gave him a job and a chance to prove himself. The son of a controversial second marriage to a woman of no background who worked for pirates – believe me, English society looked down their noses at Matthew all the time. He's needed to do everything the hard way, make his men respect and fear him, and by the looks of things, he's done that bloody well. And then here comes Gold, who needs a foot back in the door, recognizes Matthew's talents, and sees the total delicious irony in finally getting Woodes Rogers' son to work for him, because Woodes Rogers himself never did. I'm just saying. It's perfect."

With that, he glanced up at Jack, who seemed unsure whether to be impressed by this perspicacity or point out that he, of course, had no proof as to Matthew Rogers' parentage, and thus the rest of his conclusions. "I was thinking it about it on the _Griffin,_ " Sam went on, before Jack could do either. "I can't be _sure,_ but, well. . . I think so, yeah."

"So. . . what? Even if this Rogers _is_ the governor's son, what the fuck are we supposed to offer him to make him take our side? You think _telling_ him that Gold's an evil, lying sack of shit will make any difference to him? It's a noble idea, I grant you, but there's no way he'll – "

"I don't know. Maybe it's stupid." Sam tapped his fingers on the dresser. "But if Matthew thinks he's serving one cause, and he turns out to be serving another – aye, I think that would matter to him. Seems to, in my experience."

Jack did not quite have another argument on hand for that, and Sam did not want to hear it anyway. Whether or not they were going to be brutally axe-murdered in the night, he did not care. He stood up, shucked his boots and trousers, and strode over to the bed in just his shirt, trying to ignore the odd, fluttering knot in his stomach. "Budge up. I'm going to sleep."

Jack paused, then got up, and Sam crawled under the covers, collapsing flat on his back and staring up at the curtained canopy. Even if it was in Robert Gold's lair, Sam could more than appreciate a soft, spacious bed that did not rock and jerk beneath him (and which was not surrounded by a hundred smelly, snoring men) and he did not move, even though it hurt to lie on his flogging wounds. Finally he rolled over onto his stomach, then opened an eye to see Jack now perched on his old spot on the dressing stool. "I swear, if you're waiting for me to fall asleep so you can sneak out and do something stupid, I'll kill you."

Jack looked vaguely guilty. "I. . . no, I wasn't planning to."

"Bollocks," Sam yawned, almost dislocating his jaw. "Course you were."

"No, I was just. . . I thought I'd sit up and keep watch."

"Look," Sam said. "If they burst in and try to kill us, I don't think it will make much difference. I'm not dragging your sleep-deprived arse around, it'll make you even more charming and personable than you usually are, and we need our wits about us. Here or on the rug, I don't care, but at least lie down."

Jack glanced up at him again, with some sort of challenge in his eyes. Then he shrugged, shucked his own boots and trousers, and crossed the floor, climbing in next to Sam and helping himself to several pillows. He settled onto his back as well, one eye on the door, as if ensuring that his path to spring out and fight intruders was clear. Then with one last sidelong look at Sam, he closed his eyes and appeared to drop immediately under.

Sam watched him in the dimness, suspecting that he was feigning but deciding that he didn't want to know. Jack looked younger, and quite a bit less fierce, like this, and he must have learned long ago not to make any noise or motion when he slept, to wake quickly and silently. The thought made Sam sad – and incredibly angry. His own childhood had been so happy that he shrank from even imagining what must have been the horror of Jack's. How could you do something like that, to your own son? Sam knew of course that bad people existed in the world, they presently being the unwilling houseguests of one, but it seemed to take a special kind of evil, beyond even Gold's, to be such as Captain Jonathan Howe. _Someone should make him pay. Someone should._ But was death, the ordinary punishment for ordinary crimes, even sufficient?

Sam did not know, and it was getting harder and harder to keep his own eyes open. With a final glance of his own at the door, which remained silent and still, he let go, and fell into swirling, troubled dreams.

* * *

Geneva was feeling considerably satisfied, if very tired, by the time she returned to the King's Arms that evening. Aside from Israel Hands, she'd hired a dozen new sailors to compensate for possible deserters, haggled a good price on the _Rose's_ resupply, and talked to a beggar down at the docks who, in exchange for a few silver pennies, told her of a man matching her uncle Liam's description, leaving with a tall blonde man and a slight dark woman, which had to be Billy Bones and Lady Fiona. So far as the beggar recollected, their destination had been somewhere in the Indies, and this, at last, all but confirmed that they were heading for Skeleton Island and could not be _too_ far ahead. Geneva was even cherishing the unwarrantedly optimistic notion that with the wind on their side and a few days' hard sailing, they could draw even. But if there was to be any chance of that, a detour to France would cost them valuable time, possibly embroil them in further difficulties trying to find her aunt Regina, and otherwise take them off course. If they could just catch up to her uncle and rescue him themselves, it would not matter if they told anyone where to theoretically find him. Problem solved.

Geneva was thus mulling over the idea of leaving as soon as possible, rather than lollygagging for another fortnight, and made a note to check how much was left to load. There was still some minor storm damage to consult a sailmaker and cooper about, but that should be simple to attend tomorrow. Then they could get the blazes out of here.

Accordingly, she strode into the inn's common room alight with this – well, not delightful prospect, but at least a diverting one – and was surprised to see Madi and Silver sitting together in a corner, having some sort of argument in hissed whispers. Not that the arguing was the surprising part, but they both looked more distressed than in their usual skirmishes, and both of them stopped on a dime when they spotted Geneva. "Ah, Captain Jones," Silver said, with a clear and strained effort at sounding jovial. "Productive day, then?"

"Aye." Geneva glanced at them, unable to restrain her curiosity. Madi was knuckling hard at her eyes, as if she had once more been crying. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to intrude, but is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine," Silver said, with just enough of an edge to remind her that since she had told him in no uncertain terms to keep his nose out of her business, it was the polite thing to return the favor. "Mrs. Rogers' appearance today merely. . . caught us off guard, that's all. I'm sure you're very weary, the innkeeper had your bath drawn. Don't waste it while it's hot. Aye?"

Able to recognize that she should not push, Geneva nodded to him coolly, stole one more concerned look at Madi, and headed up to their room, shutting the door, stripping off her clothes, and submerging herself in the big wooden tub with a heartfelt groan. She lay against the edge, steam rising in the golden evening light, soaking off what felt like an entire calcified hide of grime. There was a cake of fine milled French soap, with which Geneva scrubbed enthusiastically, washed and rinsed her hair over one of the buckets, and was finally feeling somewhat human by the time she wobbled out, jelly-legged, and wrapped up in one of the towels. The water looked like the runoff from a colliery, and she was sitting by the vanity and staring into space, hair loose in damp tangles down her back, when there was a knock on the door and it opened a crack. "Gen – Captain Jones? There's supper downstairs if you – "

Geneva jumped to her feet, as she had let the towel slip down around her waist, and snatched it up again. "Bloody hell, I'm not – shoo!"

The heat of Jim Hawkins' blush could nearly have reheated the tepid bathwater on its own. "Oh Jesus," she heard him mutter. "That's me dead then, isn't it."

Despite her annoyance at being interrupted while decidedly not decent, Geneva could not help but feel rather bad for the poor boy – well, he was about her age, but he still seemed a boy in some ways. If you lived on a ship with men for as long as she had, you developed a rather permissive attitude toward nudity, as it was bound to occur in some capacity. Geneva herself was assuredly no fainting damsel who regarded it as the height of scandal for a gentleman to inadvertently glimpse her whilst unclad, and she raised her voice. "It's all right, I was just taking a bath. You startled me, is all."

"I, ah." It was clear that an extensive amount of Jim Hawkins' capacity for intelligent thought had left him cruelly in the lurch, and showed no signs of returning. "I – I didn't, I'll just – "

Geneva wrapped the towel firmly under her arms and – knowing it was _slightly_ unkind, but not particularly caring – crossed the room to look out at him. Jim was a color to which even 'scarlet' did not do much justice, both trying to decorously avert his eyes and unable to resist stealing half a glance. Some of the steam was still wafting off Geneva as she leaned on the jamb and grinned at him. "Let me guess. First time you've ever seen a naked woman?"

Jim ran a finger under his collar. "It is not."

"Oh?" Growing up in a house accustomed to the anything-goes morality of Nassau, where everyone was too busy scheming and stealing and drinking and stabbing to give the absolute remotest damn who was doing what in bed with who, Geneva had acquired a much more informed – and much more laissez-faire – attitude toward the subject of sex than would have been deemed at all proper for a young lady of Quality. Her mother had given her a small chat at the age of sixteen, which Geneva had found complete agony to sit through, but which boiled down to the fact that so long as everyone involved was sensible, consenting, and happy about the whole thing, she should feel free to do as she wished – oh, and it was probably best not to tell her father. Emma herself, who had gotten pregnant with Henry at the age of seventeen, and then unexpectedly again with Geneva, was insistent that her daughter tell her if she was engaging intimately with a man, so she could see about getting the herbal drafts and tansy oils and other things that reduced the risk of conception, and Geneva – who had no desire to be a mother just yet – had accordingly done so. She was no virgin, to be sure, and if that had been a major impediment to a man she was thinking of marrying, she wouldn't marry him. Not that she was intending to marry Jim Hawkins, or even necessarily do something which might plant the idea in his head, but she found his stumbling and blushing irresistible to poke at, just a bit.

Jim, for his part, seemed determined to remember where exactly he had seen a naked woman before, but could not quite bring it to mind. His eyes flicked to her neck and shoulders, and then away. "I, ah," he said, taking a large step backward. "I'll just. . . be on my way. Downstairs. Yes. Downstairs. That's it."

With that, tripping over a floorboard, he practically sprinted, as Geneva watched him go with a smirk, then turned around, sauntered back into the room, and barred the door this time. She was considerably intrigued to see if Jim would be able to look her in the face again without having his head set afire like a Roman candle. He _was_ a good-looking young man, clearly did not object to beholding her more intimate aspects, and if she was being dragged along on this entire ridiculous journey, it seemed unfair not to get at least a bit of personal enjoyment out of it. That, however, would have to wait. As well, Geneva did not want to sleep with him and then discover that he was an idiot, or convinced they were destined for each other, or otherwise possessive and obnoxious. She did very much enjoy certain things about men, but it was not to be denied that they were absolutely the denser half of the human species.

Dried, dressed, brushed, and otherwise fit for public viewing, Geneva went downstairs for supper, noticed that Jim knocked over his plate and took a long time about fetching it, and that Madi's eyes were still red. She and Silver kept exchanging half-glances as they ate, and Geneva, looking over at Thomas, saw that he had noticed this too. They raised their eyebrows at each other, but could not discuss it in front of the others, and Geneva cleared her throat and informed them of her accomplishments. "So," she finished. "It's almost certain that my uncle, Billy Bones, and Lady Fiona Murray are in fact headed for Skeleton Island, so I think we should be after them as soon as possible."

"What about a first mate?"

"I hired a new one." Geneva helped herself to another spoonful of cherry tart.

"Did you?" Silver evidently could not decide whether to be impressed or wary. "Who?"

Geneva gave him a sweet smile. "Experienced sailor. I'm sure you'll get along."

Silver seemed about to say something else, then stopped. The rest of supper was conducted more or less without incident, but Thomas slipped after Geneva as she went outside to sit in the back courtyard,. "My dear," he said, shutting the door. "I see you're not about to tell Mr. Silver, but might I be permitted to know the identity of your new crewman?"

"Aye, of course." Geneva beckoned him to sit next to her. "His name is Israel Hands, one of Blackbeard's old men. He's been to Skeleton Island himself before, and he particularly dislikes Silver. I think he'll be a solid addition."

She glanced at her uncle, waiting for his approval, but instead Thomas frowned. "I'm sorry, did you say Israel Hands?"

"Yes. Why?"

"It's only, I'm sure I've heard your grandfather mention him. He was violent and disruptive even by Nassau's standards, tried to challenge Blackbeard for captaincy of the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ once, and was otherwise a loose cannon." The fine furrow between Thomas' weathered brows drew deeper. "If he wants to come with us, I cannot doubt it is for some secret design of his own, and not one we should necessarily welcome."

"I did get the sense he was a bit cracked, but – " Geneva frowned as well. "He'll keep Silver in check, at least, and you and I can both agree that is a top – "

"Believe me," Thomas said, "I did not expect to be uttering these words either. But there are worse men than John Silver for us to have aboard our ship."

" _Our_ ship? It's _my_ ship."

"Yes, it is, and you know that I have consciously stepped back and let you take the lead, supported all your decisions. But Jenny, I cannot help but remark – and you know as well that I love you, that this is meant in no malice – that you have your father and grandfather's flaws as well as their strengths. You are pushing more and more into that side of them, and you, that is reckless, vindictive, and determined to take risks even, and especially, when you are counseled against them. Given how we found ourselves on this venture, I understand, I do, your desire to keep punishing Silver for it. But I must be plain. I do not think Israel Hands is a wise idea, or a choice that will assist in what, no matter how, we have been set to do. It is a decision made purely from spite, and you're too smart for that, my dear. Dissolve it now whilst still you can."

This was not at all what Geneva had expected to hear, and she felt a prickle of wounded pride at being rebuked by her uncle, with whom she had always been very close. "I can manage Hands. And besides, when did you become such a Silver devotee? Didn't you tell him to stay away from me, that he had a complete lack of care for anyone other than – "

At that, she came to a screeching halt, as Thomas looked first confused, wondering how she could have possibly known that – then, as realization dawned, stunned. "You. . ." he said. "You listened to our conversation that night on the _Rose?"_

"I – " Geneva's face went hot. "I. . . may have heard. . . a bit of it, yes."

"I heard you go into your cabin. Or at least, I thought I did." Thomas surveyed her with that piercing light-blue gaze of his. He didn't sound angry, only surprised and saddened. "You intentionally deceived us to stay out and listen? Why did you do that?"

"I just. . ." Geneva was only able to mumble a few words about it being her ship and having a right to know, all of which sounded fabulously feeble when spoken aloud and which did nothing to ease the flat, grim line of Thomas's mouth. "I'm sorry, Uncle Thomas, I just. . ."

"I understand your curiosity, of course," Thomas allowed, after a moment. "It was what drew us originally to Nassau, after all, and John Silver is an enigma into which we have likewise both, in our different ways and reasons, become drawn. As well, it is natural that you should want to know more of your grandfather's past. But as we must accept that our parents are mortal creatures, we must also accept that there are some things which we as their children simply do not have the need or entitlement to know. I am also, I must say, rather insulted at the idea that you thought I might say one thing to you, and altogether another behind your back. I spoke as I did to Mr. Silver because I thought you were not listening – well, you were, and that cannot be taken back. But you have, as a result, compromised my trust. I do not wish to treat you as a girl, when you are a woman and the captain of your own vessel, but Jenny, you have very much acted as one, and I did expect better. Perhaps that was my mistake. You are still very young."

This quiet, matter-of-fact disappointment was worse than if he had shouted at her, and Geneva's cheeks felt as scalded as Jim's must have earlier. She twisted her hands in her lap, biting her lip, feeling a hot prickling behind her eyes and unable to meet his. "I'm. . . sorry," she said again, forcing the words past the hot band constricting her chest. "I. . . didn't mean. . ."

"Thank you," Thomas said politely. "I accept your apology, and I expect that it will not happen again. Perhaps we should go inside? It's getting quite dark."

With that, he rose to his feet, offered his hand to her, and led her back into the inn, then inclined his head and strode off to the stairs, leaving Geneva standing in the corner and rubbing her eyes hard. If Silver turned up now, getting a whiff of distress that he could profitably and sympathetically insinuate himself into, she would hit him, but he didn't. When she started down the corridor toward the common room, thinking she might get another drink before going up to bed, she heard the murmur of voices, and looked out to see Silver and Madi still sitting by themselves at the table. Too absorbed in their low-voiced exchange, they did not notice her, and having just been reprimanded for illicit eavesdropping, Geneva certainly did not want to do it all over again. She turned smartly and started to leave, but could not help but catch a few fragments.

" – no right to ask it of us, not when she – "

"I know," Silver said wearily. "But we both know that it is not her you're truly angry at. And in that case, Woodes Rogers is dead, and his widow could be useful, especially if her son _is_ serving aboard a – "

Madi made a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob. _"Useful,"_ she repeated. "Of course, even now, that is what you prize the most, is it not? It was useful, the arrangement you came to the first time? Do you even remember what that cost us, or should I refresh your memory?"

"Madi – " Silver reached for her hand, but she snatched it away from him. He sounded harrowed and haunted, a man desperate to find his footing on a crumbling sandbar, even as the water rose and rose. "Do you think I have not thought about it every day since? You never let me come close, you never let me even try to – "

"You could not have mended it." Madi looked away, her face stony but her voice ragged. "Not when you destroyed it."

This absolutely did not sound like the sort of thing that Geneva needed to hear a word more of, and she silently backtracked, managing to reach the stairs without them knowing they had been, even briefly, spied upon. Her legs felt leaden as she climbed up, let herself back into the room – the tub had been emptied and removed – and undressed. All her self-satisfaction seemed to have dissipated, leaving only a cold fog, and she lay down in bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering if she was still committed to employing Hands. Thomas had no reason to vouch for Silver out of any personal liking or desire for more of his company, so he could only be doing it out of genuine conviction that the alternative was worse. But he would be the first to admit that he knew nothing about piracy or the truth of those days. . . it had been twenty-five years, even if Hands had been a problem then, there was no automatic certainty that he was now. . . she still wanted to keep Silver good and uncomfortable, even as she could not help but hear Thomas remarking that she was giving into the family tendency to hold grudges and seek vengeance even when it came at considerable cost to oneself. . . aye, Silver had tricked them into this, but now they were going to rescue her uncle Liam and everything would be. . .

Lost in unquiet thoughts, Geneva barely noticed when the door opened and Madi let herself in, face cool and carven and remote in the moonlight, as if she had gone beyond grief and anger and into somewhere simply numb. Geneva watched under her eyelids, then shut them, thinking she should pretend to be asleep. The bed creaked as Madi climbed in, whereupon she tried to lie still, but the air around her was so unsettled, her presence so raw, that Geneva could not get comfortable again. Finally she whispered, "Madi?"

The older woman started slightly, and looked over at her. She seemed to be wondering if she should say something, then shook her head and sat up. "I am sorry," she said. "I should not have brought this here. I will sleep elsewhere tonight."

"You don't have to. . . I just. . ." Geneva did not want to make this worse again, fumbled to think how to be honest. "I couldn't help but overhearing a little earlier, and I – I left, I swear, but if this is about allowing Eleanor Rogers on the ship, I wasn't planning to, but if it's personal to you. . ."

She grimaced, afraid that Madi would feel that her confidence had been betrayed as Thomas had, but Madi did not appear outstandingly angry. She regarded Geneva for a moment, head to one side, considering. "How much did you hear, exactly?"

"Not much." Geneva fiddled with the sheet. "I came back inside after Uncle Thomas. . . after we. . . never mind. I was just going to get a drink, but I heard Silver say that it might be useful to take Eleanor along after all, and you. . ." She stopped, hideously embarrassed. "Well. You didn't want to. But earlier, he didn't seem all that interested in taking Eleanor, he said – "

"You have made the first mistake of dealing with John," Madi said. "Assuming that what he said earlier can be trusted to hold now, and that he has ever encountered a situation which, no matter how much personal discomfort it may cause him, cannot be amended in the pursuit of advantage and opportunity. But you should not feel bad. I made the same, and I have known him much longer than you. Even now. Even in this, I thought – "

"I'm sorry," Geneva said quietly. "Please. You don't have to tell me."

"I know." Madi looked back at her. "Of course I do not have to. You do recall what I said earlier, about making my own choices, that you have not forced me to do anything? But you are the captain of the _Rose,_ and thus the one with whom rests the decision whether or not to take Eleanor along. And I suppose you have the right to know why I object to it."

Geneva opened and shut her mouth. She could not help but think of Thomas' adjuration that there were things which children had no right to know of their parents, but then, Madi was not her parent, and she seemed to be offering the information freely. "All right."

Madi was quiet for a long moment, as if thinking how to communicate this as efficiently and impersonally as possible, as if writing a dispatch from the War Office. Then she said, "As you will know, Woodes Rogers was released from prison after serving several years for debt. He returned to Nassau for a second term as governor in 1728, which was a great shock for all of us living there. We had not expected to be confronted by that man again, after everything we had fought and suffered to be rid of him. It nearly started another war, and there were many of us who thought the risk was worth taking. I was among those who thought that we were justified in working to resist him. I would have done more, but – "

She stopped.

"Yes?" Geneva prompted tentatively.

"But," Madi said, looking up at her with that calm, flat dark gaze, "I was pregnant."

"You – " At that, Geneva remembered Madi and Silver's strange reaction to Eleanor's claim that they should sympathize with her desire to get back to her son if nothing else, and felt a large chunk of ice drop into her stomach, suddenly understanding at least some of how tragic this story was going to be, and not wanting to understand any more. "Oh, Christ, I'm sorry."

Madi shrugged. "John had been. . . unsure about it, about how much of a father he thought he could be. He did not want war with Rogers, again, and felt that Max and I were taking too hard a line in being determined to demonstrate to the governor that matters had changed, that we ruled Nassau now and he did not. We argued. I reminded him that Rogers had kidnapped me during the first war, that I well remembered what sort of man he was, that we could not let him have power over us again, and I was prepared to pay the price. He said he had given up enough to stop that first war, and would not let it go in vain. He. . ."

She considered, twisting the bedspread between her fingers, staring intently at the wall. Finally she said, "He went to Rogers behind my back, and offered him a deal he had no right to propose, with authority he had no right to delegate, about which powers Rogers should have, and which we should retain. I believe he felt that he was solving the problem, that he knew best and could come to some sort of compromise, and that would be enough to make the conflict go away. He then did not tell me that he had done this, until I received a letter a week later, asking me to go to the governor's mansion, to confirm it. To go back to Woodes Rogers and present myself and kneel, to swear myself a loyal subject, a. . ."

She stopped again, as Geneva reached out to put a hand on her arm. Madi barely seemed to notice, eyes bleaker and blinder than ever. The silence hung over them until she said, "Once more, we argued. He did not even seem to understand how he had betrayed my trust, how he had disregarded everything I had asked of him, still thinking he was doing the right thing for us, for Nassau. I suppose it was too much. Our son came that night, three months too early."

Geneva did not want her to keep talking, to have to say this, but now that Madi had started, it seemed impossible to hold it back, and the words spilled out of her as if she had to, she had to tell someone, she had to make them understand. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He was perfect," she said. "Absolutely perfect. His head fit in the palm of my hand. He had black curls, and all his fingers and toes, and he was brown as a walnut, halfway between us. He was still alive for a little while after he was born. He never made a sound, he never cried. I would have given my own life for his. If he could have grown up, if he could have opened his eyes, if he could have breathed on his own. There is nothing – _nothing –_ I would not have done for that, and what could I do? Nothing. I could do nothing. I hope you never have to know what it is like to sit there in that darkness, in your bloody bed, singing to him, and see, as the moon came out from behind the cloud, that he was gone, and you did not even know the moment when."

With that, Madi doubled in half and began, for what must have been the first time in twelve years, to sob. She bent over on all fours, clutching the sheet, shaking and twisting it and gulping and shivering, as Geneva put both arms around her and pulled her in, tears running silently down her own cheeks. She rocked Madi as if she was a small child herself, feeling half the daughter that Thomas had been disappointed in and half the mother who must put that aside, knowing again that there was no way for her to fully comprehend this pain. "I'm sorry," she whispered, as she had said it to her uncle, in similar form but different meaning, feeling more than ever the insufficiency of mending back such things, so great and terrible, so raw and tender and impossible, impossible. "I'm sorry."

Madi did not answer, still shaking, until her head rested heavy against Geneva's shoulder and she went quiet. At last she spoke again, in a distant, dreamlike voice. "From that day, things were never the same between us again. John kept trying, he kept _trying_ to fix them, and yet inevitably, they became worse. He never understood exactly what he had done wrong, and Rogers died four years later, but that did not mend it. Why is it that African mothers lose their sons the most, when the white man kills them either intentionally or simply through ignorance? And now Eleanor dares to ask this of us for the sake of _her_ son, for Rogers' son. She hopes that even we can understand that, she says. I know my father worked for her for several years. I know he was, in his way, fond of her. But I am not sure I can see her again, and not want to claw her eyes out."

"We don't. . ." Geneva's voice sounded rusty. "If Eleanor does come back, we. . . I wasn't intending to take her with us. I'm sorry that happened to you. I'm sorry."

Again Madi said nothing, before she sniffed once more and straightened up. "So," she said, as calmly as if continuing a prior conversation. "I had hoped that might be enough, for once, for John to hold fast in refusing to allow Eleanor to accompany us. But no. She might be _useful._ Even now, he must plan for a dozen different potential outcomes, instead of listening to me when I say this is something I cannot abide. Sometimes I still deceive myself into believing that he will change. I am not sure why. Perhaps he justifies it to himself that Eleanor was not there, and took no direct part in the events. I do not know. I wish I did not care. I am so tired. So tired."

"You should sleep," Geneva said, lowering Madi to the mattress as gently as she could, settling her on the pillow, and pulling the quilt up. "Shh. Go to sleep."

Madi murmured something about not wanting to, even as she was already drifting off. Geneva sat next to her until she was sure that Madi was really asleep, then slid down as well, feeling as if somebody had reached into her body and pulled out her backbone. She could not help the uncomfortable thought that it was almost counterproductive to punish Silver further, when there was no one who could punish him as he could himself. Between the secrets she had learned illicitly from him and Thomas, and the ones that Madi had now told her plainly, she began to understand the necessity of keeping them in the past, of trying to let them lie quiet, when they still lived so close to you every day. It was finding that measure of solace, or going mad, and Geneva began to understand the gravity and the struggle of how her parents and grandparents had managed to do it, however imperfectly. It felt very strange to lie there in the darkness and think of this, grapple with its weight. To wonder if this was what it cost, growing up.

The next day was a blur of activity. Geneva was up at the crack of dawn, rather than the long lie-in she had enjoyed yesterday, and scarcely seemed to stop moving thereafter. She was still not yet certain whether to jettison Hands, but did not have much time to ponder; if all kept to schedule, they would be leaving tomorrow evening. Geneva did not think they had ever turned around so fast, but then, they did not have cargo to load and unload, or passengers to wait for, and the Bristol tradesmen from the sailors' guild were located in due course to patch up the _Rose._ At first they were inclined to charge her double, as she was not a member (as well as doubtless thinking that a female would be less familiar with the value of their labor) but Jim went in and shouted at them for a bit, which proved unexpectedly efficient. "Told them I was going," he added wryly, pulling a tangle of hemp out of his shaggy chestnut ponytail. "Think they would have done the work at any price, if they knew it meant getting rid of me."

"Come now, I'm sure you don't mean that." Geneva smiled consolingly. Jim seemed to have recovered fairly well from his bath-induced heart failure last night, and she leaned on the wall of the quay warehouse, looking up at him (he was a pleasant few inches taller than her, which could be difficult to find in a man, she being of quite respectable stature herself). "But if we are leaving tomorrow, have you told your mother yet?"

Jim glanced away. "I sent her a letter."

"Go see her," Geneva urged, the memory of Madi's grief still painfully close at hand, until she could not countenance the thought of taking another son from his mother without a proper farewell. "If – if we don't – well, I'm sure everything will be fine, but at least see her once before you go. I'm sure she's mourning your absence as much as the loss of the Benbow. Please." She put a hand on his arm. "I'm sure it would mean a great deal to her."

Jim looked at her hand, swallowed hard, and after a moment, seemed to discover that whatever rationalizations he had carefully crafted to the contrary had inexplicably evaporated. "I. . . well," he said. "All right, I'll. . . I'll go see her."

"Good." Geneva leaned up to peck his cheek, at which she feared she might have overdone it, as Jim sped from the docklands with his face once more resembling the great red storm on the planet Jupiter (Geneva, as a sailor, avidly read astronomical publications). She watched him go with another grin, and reminded herself it was cruel to tease him too much, but she needed the moment of levity and distraction after the heavy emotion of last night. She hadn't seen Thomas at breakfast, or yet that day. She did hope he hadn't done anything rash – that was extremely uncharacteristic of him, but if he'd still been angry –

It was not until considerably later that evening, when they had returned to the King's Arms and Geneva was worried enough to think of sending for the constables, that Thomas finally reappeared. His waistcoat was dirty and untucked, his lip split, and his eye blackening; indeed, he looked as if he was fresh off a back-alley brawl, something that Geneva had never imagined of her urbane, well-dressed, gentle, intellectual uncle. She jumped to her feet, even as Silver, Madi, and Jim glanced over in some consternation. "Uncle Thomas! _What_ happened – did somebody – here, sit down, let me take a look at – "

"I'm fine, Jenny." Thomas allowed her to assist him into a chair, but waved her off when she tried for a better examination of his injuries. "I started the fight, if you're wondering."

" _You –_?" Geneva goggled at him. She had not thought that Thomas had ever started a proper fight in his life – but then she remembered what he had said to her back in Bermuda, that he had not told James and Miranda everything that happened to him while they were apart, and supposed that he had not survived all those years of incarceration and hard labor with just a charming smile and an excellent command of Cicero. "Are you – that is – what was – ?"

"Suffice to say, Israel Hands will not be accompanying us." Thomas winced, pulling out his handkerchief to dab his bloody lip. "Fortunately, I managed to catch him while he was drunk, or I daresay I would look much worse."

"You went after – " Geneva blinked stupidly. "Oh God, no. Uncle Thomas, you're sixty-eight, you're a gentleman. You should have let me handle it, I would have – "

Thomas looked at her coolly. "And was I to be sure that you would do it, then?"

Geneva stopped short, feeling slapped. She wanted to say that he should have told her, he should have trusted her, but she was sharply aware of why he had not, and after all, she had delayed making a decision on Hands today, trying to avoid committing one way or another until the last minute. It was Silver who said, "Hands? _Israel_ Hands? I knew him by repute on Nassau, if it's the same man – _that_ was the first mate you thought you were hiring for us?"

"Evidently not any more." Geneva wished they would stop staring. "Congratulations, Mr. Silver, it appears the post is yours. I – I don't think I'm that hungry after all. I'll go to bed."

With that, she fairly fled upstairs and into her room, undressing and climbing into bed for lack of anything better to do and lying with her eyes closed, in an uneasy, anxious stupor that stubbornly refused to deepen into real sleep, for what felt like hours. She thought she would hear Madi come in at some point, but when she finally woke up with a jerk sometime in the wee hours, having evidently finally managed to drop off, the other side of the bed was untouched. Wherever Madi was sleeping tonight, it was not here.

Geneva rolled over, managed after another lengthy interlude to get back to sleep, woke again not long past dawn, and finally gave up. She rose and dressed, peering out the window. It was the usual cool and cloudy sort of day that England could be reliably counted upon to produce no matter the nominal season, but it should clear a bit by evening. Not bad sailing weather, at any rate. Silver would have to help her plot the course, as he was the one who knew where Skeleton Island was, but they also had to guess where else Lady Fiona and Billy might be going. If they were skipping the trip to France, that made it doubly imperative that they rescue Uncle Liam. _I'm not being reckless in that. I'm not._

Geneva wandered downstairs, ate a quick breakfast, and headed for the docks to oversee final preparations. She herself would not be sad to leave Bristol behind; a little knowledge of the past could be a very dangerous thing. She didn't regret coming, exactly, but she was only starting to realize what she had gotten into, aside from just the physical requirements of the undertaking, and those were grueling enough. Nor did she think it was likely to stop.

The last provisions were stowed around four o'clock that afternoon, the new men brought on board and given their tasks and places on the crew, the anchor raised, and the _Rose_ began her careful journey down the river channel toward the sea. Geneva was too occupied to spend much time watching the city vanish behind the steep banks. They glided into the spectacular Avon Gorge, which took more careful attention to negotiate, and then finally got a whiff of brine, following the sinking sun out west into the Atlantic.

The wind was strong, but fickle in direction, and Geneva kept a close eye on the new recruits to see how they were handling the changes of lines and sheets. Silver seemed to be keeping them decently enough on task, at any rate, and Geneva herself always felt easier on the sea, no matter the circumstances in which she had arrived there. It felt better to be pointed back in a roughly homeward direction, rather than the complete unknown, and for the first time, she might almost be able to glimpse the end of this. Wasn't that a thought.

When they were well enough out to sea for the English coast to have vanished, Geneva congratulated everyone on a smooth departure, sent Jim to find a bunk with the crew and Madi to the cabin again, glanced at Thomas where he was standing by the rail, and then went below to check the lashings and to make sure they had properly caulked that leak in the forward bulkhead. She pulled the trapdoor shut and climbed down the ladder, took the lantern from its hook, and started into the cramped hold, ducking the low beam. The dim shapes of piled sacks and barrels lay to every side as she made her way across, pulled her skirts over a snagging nail, and –

Geneva caught movement out of the corner of her eye just an instant too late, and whirled around, just as a scarred hand clamped over her mouth and she was jerked back against the hull with considerable force. She couldn't see who had hold of her, but then she made out a second shape in front of her, and saw Eleanor Rogers rising stiffly from where she must have been hiding for hours – stowed away last night, probably. At that, Geneva suddenly understood who had grabbed her, but a less likely pairing she could not imagine – Woodes Rogers' widow and a man who had once worked for the legendary pirate Rogers had killed? Unless they were so driven as to overlook all prior enmities and – Christ, _mess_ did not even begin to describe this –

"Good evening, Captain," Israel Hands breathed in her ear. "Think it's time to discuss the terms of our passage."


	14. XIV

Flint was confined to bed for the rest of the week. As he was well aware that he was extremely lucky to be alive, even he did not complain – at least any more than usual. He did try to get up and carry on as normal on Wednesday morning, which led to him almost falling down the stairs and otherwise causing a disruption, and he was packaged straight back to bed with considerable scolding. After that, it was somewhat easier (if only somewhat) to convince him that a few more days of rest and recuperation were in order, and by Saturday, he was almost feeling his old self, albeit with a nasty, still-knitting gash that would require close minding. They had had to cut his hair on that side of his head to tend it, which gave him a slightly mangy look that he disliked, so Miranda fetched the shears and evened it out. "There," she said dryly, with a final snip. "I'm not certain that our most pressing concern is your vanity, my dear, but there you are."

"Better." Flint inspected his new trim critically in Violet's hand mirror. It had been a long week for everyone – needing to take care of him, wanting to further their investigation into Gold but also wanting to stay close to home in the event of another attack, and waiting tersely for another potential instruction or complication from Gideon – and tempers, while holding reasonably well given the strain, were still fraying around the edges. No constables had beaten down the door to accuse them of collaboration with the Jacobites, at least, so that seemed to remain secret enough, and perhaps the tip that David had given the redcoat captain had led the authorities to nab some of the conspirators. Flint had not wanted them to question Charlotte without him, so Violet and Lucy had been over at the Bell household for most of the week, to keep up a casual, unsuspicious conversation and otherwise not startle Charlotte into running if she thought they were onto her. What there was to be "on" to, if there was anything at all, they still had no idea.

"I don't think you're ready to jump back into full action quite yet," Emma said, as Flint appeared to leap out of the chair and do just that. "You might be able to go visit Charlotte with us, but even then, we're not getting information out of her if you just – "

"If he behaves like himself, you mean," Miranda supplied briskly, unscrewing a small tin of liniment, dabbing up a few fingers, and carefully applying it to Flint's wound. " _Do_ you suppose you could possibly manage not to, James?"

Flint hitched his face up into a hideous simulacrum of a friendly smile. "Does that help?"

"Not at all, really." Miranda continued her examination to see how the flesh was granulating, seemed moderately satisfied by what she found, took the fresh-boiled cotton wool and clean bandages from Emma, and began to tie up the new dressing. "As an old friend once told you, you will need to keep your temper for the duration of the meeting, not merely its inception. One hole in your head is quite enough for you to be getting on with."

Wisely warned by the shortness in her tone not to make any more remarks of his own, Flint held his tongue and sat still until his wife had finished her work, was then not pleased by his resulting partial resemblance to an Egyptian mummy, and sought about for a hat to disguise the infirmity. The only one he could find was a battered old tricorne of Henry's, that when he put it on made him look rather like a villainous highwayman (this impression being, after all, not entirely inaccurate) and which was strengthened when he shrugged on his cuffed black cavalier's coat and slung his pistol bandolier over his shoulder. "I swear, I won't shoot unless someone shoots at me first," he said, in response to Emma and Miranda's renewed askance glances. "But I'm still not walking in unarmed."

Sensing that this was clearly the best they were going to get, the women fetched their own cloaks and shoes and made ready to go. They had decided that it should be the three of them to question Charlotte, as they knew the most about Gold and any link she might have with him, and if it did go sour, it could be blamed on them without tainting Charlotte's friendship with Henry and Violet. Flint, of course, was of the opinion that if this was the case, good riddance, but Emma and Miranda hoped that they could restrain it from undue manifestation. Henry had tentatively gone back to the print shop, as he needed to work to support his family, so David was left in charge of protecting Violet and the children. He had taken quite well to his role as surrogate grandfather; he and Mary Margaret had no children of their own, and he was to be observed playing with Lucy and Richard in the back garden as they left. Flint shot him a very dark look over his shoulder, but for once, did not comment.

It was a pale, breezy, early-September day, the very slightest edge taken off the worst of the summer heat. As they set off down the lane, it only being a brief walk to the Bells, Flint said abruptly, "It's Sam's birthday tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yes." Emma had not forgotten that tomorrow was the seventh, as she had not forgotten Killian's birthday a fortnight ago, and her heart twisted. It was getting harder and harder to repress the unbearable thought that she might never see her younger son again. "We. . . we should have supper. To mark the occasion."

"You don't think – " Flint started, then stopped. "Never mind."

"No. What?"

"You don't think a young man of Sam's. . . talents, who traipsed off to fight with overheated notions of chivalry and gallantry, who has been getting into trouble before he could walk, and cannot tell a lie to save his life, might have become embroiled in some other mess apart from just the war? If someone in the army worked out who he was, if they found themselves in need of an assistant or an underling for some excursion or endeavor or what have you, is there not a chance they'd settle on Sam? I'd pick the boy from the notorious family of pirates, since I'd know there was a nearly unlimited supply of ways to ensure his compliance. Sam could never resist an adventure, no matter how hare-brained. So. . .?"

Emma glanced at Flint with one eyebrow raised in the way that Killian did so well, as she thought it was a bit rich of him to be casting stones at anyone else for their proclivity toward hare-brained adventures. Still, the rest of what he was saying made a certain amount of sense, both oddly reassuring and further worrying. If Sam _had_ been recruited into a side job or personal favor for someone, that could indeed be the reason he had not come home, rather than that he was badly injured or dead. However, it also meant that he could be literally bloody anywhere in the New World, in God knew what circumstances, with God knew which consequences for failure (or, for that matter, success). There was always the possibility that he had made it back to Savannah with the English army's retreat, been extremely puzzled to find his entire family gone with not even a note, and settled in to wait until they got home, but that was most unlike him. He'd set out to look for them at least, and something else, that lingering sense that Emma could only categorize as motherly intuition, continued to tell her that this was not the case. She didn't think he was dead, or simply could not seriously entertain the possibility and stay sane, but she didn't think he was safe, either. _Oh God, where are you?_

"I don't know," she said heavily, after a moment. "We still can't find out right now. Come on."

They reached the Bell residence in a few more moments, went up the front steps, and knocked. All of them were doubtless wondering if there would be some excitement in its answering, but after a moment, the latch clicked, and Charlotte opened the door. "Yes, can I – oh."

"Good morning, Mrs. Bell." Emma tried to make her voice as polite and pleasant as possible. "Could we by any chance have a word?"

Charlotte's eyes flickered warily to Flint's guns. "Is something wrong?"

"No. We'd just. . . well. Only a few questions, I promise."

Charlotte considered for a moment, then stepped back and beckoned them inside more or less graciously. The house was smaller than the Swans', and nearly devoid of possessions; it was very clean and well kept, but sparsely furnished and lightly lived in. Charlotte led them through to a sitting room with a threadbare divan and one armchair; Cecilia was playing on the floor with a rag doll, but glanced up in startlement at the adults' entrance. "Run upstairs to your room, Ceci," Charlotte said firmly. "Go on, hurry."

"But Aunt Charlie – "

"Room. Now. Off with you."

Cecilia picked up her doll and scuttled out, not without a frightened look at Flint. At Charlotte's gesture, he, Emma, and Miranda squashed themselves onto the divan, and she herself sat neatly in the armchair, smoothing her skirts. As if anticipating what they were going to ask, she said, "I did not send that man after you."

"I believe you," Emma promised. "But it's possible you know something that can help us find who did. Did you speak to anyone about anything you might have heard – or inferred – from Violet?"

"I was asking a few questions at the docks," Charlotte said, after a pause. "It could be that some of the men I approached were connected to the ones dealing with you, but I did not explicitly say anything about you, or tell them where to find you."

"And yet they knew exactly how to thwart our plan," Flint said coolly. "Why is that, would you suggest?"

"I don't know." Charlotte glared at him, and Emma could not help but be impressed that this young, pretty, brown-haired girl was managing to hold her own against a man who had terrified many other full-grown, much older men. "They made a lucky guess."

"I don't believe in lucky guesses."

Miranda cleared her throat. "Might I point out," she said, "that the success of the stratagem did not necessarily rest on intimate knowledge of ours. Of course they would have the wits to carry out their illicit activities as normally and unsuspiciously as possible, not because they were craftily suspecting us of some devious attempt to ambush them. The events at the rendezvous point itself can be entirely explained by a drop of common sense on their part – a quality I note to be rather lacking among certain other participants in them – so the only question we would have genuine need to clarify Mrs. Bell's role in is whether she sent the assassin. And as she herself killed the man, I for one concur with Emma that this is signally and insultingly unlikely!"

Despite himself, Flint's mouth twitched. "It's a pity they don't let women be barristers," he remarked. "I'm fairly sure you would put the fear of God into the lot of them."

"Perhaps I should start by putting some into you." Miranda clearly had still not forgiven him for his near-death capers. "Now, shall we continue the conversation constructively, or do you have something else to divert us with, my dear?"

"No," Flint said politely. "Please, proceed."

Miranda gave him one last extremely pointed look, then turned back to Charlotte. "Excusing my husband's rudeness," she said, "we _have_ had a difficult fortnight. And we also think we may have an inkling as to who was potentially responsible for at least some of it. Have you ever, by chance, met a Lord Robert Gold?"

All of them watched Charlotte's face very hard at that, but there was not even a flicker of momentary recognition. "No," she said, baffled. "I recall the name from somewhere, but I've never met him. Besides, isn't he dead?"

"That is what we would like to know," Emma said. "He was considerably dangerous to us in the past, and I doubt his opinion has improved at all. On that note, I do have to ask if you could help us in some way, and what brought you to Philadelphia. Who exactly is Jack?"

Charlotte hesitated, as she always did when the subject arose. Finally she said, "Oh, very well. He's my husband."

"Is there some reason you couldn't tell us that before?" Flint asked, somewhat less sarcastically than he otherwise might have.

"It's – never mind." Charlotte sighed. "Anyway, yes. Two years ago. We escaped England, but couldn't bring A – my friend. Believe me, we had tried."

"All right," Emma said, trying to keep them on course. "What does Jack do?"

"He's a – he's a soldier."

"And where is he presently?"

"Somewhere in the Caribbean. He was taking a job to make us some money and help liberate my friend. As you can see – " Charlotte gestured at the shabby, bare sitting room – "we are hardly living in the lap of luxury. I still have a little money left, but that's not much, and I don't expect it will stretch beyond another few weeks. Otherwise, I'll have to think of something else."

"I have some money." Emma remembered painfully well what it was like to struggle to feed yourself and a young child, and the constant worry that it would run short. "I'll see you and Cecilia taken care of."

Charlotte looked at her awkwardly, surprised but not unwilling. "I – that would help. Thank you."

"That is all very well and good." Flint clearly thought that all this tender concern for women and children was rather sorely beside the point. "Why don't you know where Jack is? Who is his commanding officer? Why all this secrecy about who he is and what the both of you are doing? Why are you so determined to get this friend of yours out of France? Is it possible, say, that you and Jack are not married at all, and this is some clever deception in service of – I don't know what, exactly, would you care to fucking enlighten us?"

Both Emma and Miranda started to say something at once, outraged, but Charlotte held up a hand, white-faced, eyes snapping. Then she whirled around and marched out of the sitting room, leaving Flint to be thoroughly glared at by his womenfolk. "If I ever get my hands on this Jack," he muttered, "we will _see_ who thinks they're the clever little – "

For a moment, they thought Charlotte had simply stormed out and put an end to the visit (Emma could not exactly blame her if so) but then they heard angry footsteps on the stairs again, and Charlotte returned with a neatly folded piece of paper, which she unfurled and took the liberty of thrusting directly under Flint's nose. "Does that," she enquired, with truly impressive icy courtesy, "possibly answer some of your questions?"

Flint, Miranda, and Emma looked down at it. It was a marriage certificate from the city of London, issued by a parish church in Marylebone, confirming that on 21 May 1738, Miss Charlotte Goode and Mr Jack Howe had been joined in the bonds of Holy Matrimony. It was duly signed by the priest, Charlotte, a bold black scrawl that must have been Jack's, and two witnesses; by the looks of things, their surnames were Goode as well. This did shut Flint up for a few moments as to whether the marriage was real, but he quickly found another thing to harp on about. "Jack _Howe?_ Haven't you been telling us that his name – your name – is Bell?"

"It is his name," Charlotte snapped. "Howe was his father's name, and his father is – was – a monster. He uses his mother's name now instead. Any other questions?"

"Oh, plenty." Flint started to get to his feet. "And if you don't feel in the mood to provide some actual substantive answers – "

Emma and Miranda both grabbed at his arms, but Charlotte was faster. Evidently the marriage certificate was not the only thing she had gone upstairs to fetch, and she plunged a hand into her skirt pocket, whipped out a pistol, cocked it with an expert flick of her thumb, and pointed it directly at him. "Believe me," she said. "I don't want this at all. But you know how good a shot I am. Try to hurt me or Ceci, and I _will_ do it, I swear."

Concerned though she was that Flint might get another perforation in his already aired-out skull, Emma could not help but further admiring this – as a former female pirate captain, she was quite sure that Charlotte would have made an excellent one. If Jack was anything like her, no wonder they were such a formidable match. Nonetheless, despite the strong possibility of him deserving it, Emma could not let her aged father suffer a second serious injury in a fortnight, and she got to her feet, moving between them with hands outstretched, as if to separate a young lioness from tackling a grey-maned elder statesman of the pride. "Everyone, take a breath and sit back down. Especially you, James."

Slowly, not taking their eyes off each other, Flint and Charlotte backed to their respective items of furniture and did as ordered. Charlotte put the gun back, but her hands remained tightly knotted in her lap, her eyes flickering to the ceiling in clear alarm that Cecilia had heard the uproar. "I don't know what else you can get from me," she said. "I don't know where Gold is. I don't work for him. I didn't send the assassin."

"All right," Flint said grudgingly, surprising everyone. "But if so, one last question. You know who I am, don't you? You said so, when I caught you snooping. You called us pirates."

"I. . . guessed a few things, yes." Charlotte's lips tightened. "You have been plastered over half the broadsheets and bill-papers in London, you know. And given what Henry's said about his family, I. . . read between the lines."

"Clever girl." Flint likewise had to recognize a display of skill from a rival, however unwillingly, and he raised a gingery eyebrow. "But then, if we're taking you at your word, you _didn't_ rush to alert the authorities about us. Did not tell them that the fearsome Captain Flint was strolling in their very midst. Even expressed your interest in having me potentially work for you – in a rather unorthodox fashion, but never mind. So could we perhaps infer in reverse that you and your husband are no allies of the English crown, and that whoever Jack is working for in the Caribbean, even if not Gold, is bloody well not King George?"

Charlotte blinked. Then she wet her lips, clearly taking a moment to think about her answer. Remarkably skilled as she might be at this game, Flint had been playing it since before she was born, and Emma herself was a step behind him on this; she had not realized that he had put the pieces together to turn the question on its head. There was a silence in which the only sound was the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantel. Then Charlotte said reluctantly, "No. It's not King George."

"So you two are Jacobites, then?" Flint moved to the next most logical option on the list with surgical precision. "Part of the network here, so you might hear things about what we were doing – and what Gideon Murray wanted – whether or not we told you?"

"No," Charlotte said. "We're not Jacobites."

"So. . ." Flint considered, for a long, fraught moment. "That leaves. . . who, exactly?"

"He's a free agent," Charlotte said, almost defiantly. A brief gleam of pride lit her eyes. "He works where the money takes him."

"A mercenary?" Flint's lips went thin. Not necessarily due to any moral objection to the vocation, but because the last mercenary they had tangled with was Henry Jennings, a prospect to chill the very soul. "Who's he working for now?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because," Flint said. "I think you know that we're more your folk than the mindless, loyalist sheep of His Majesty's Britannic Government. Your choice. I could be wrong."

Charlotte considered them closely. She opened her mouth, shut it, and started again. Then at last she said, "Jack works for the Spanish. He has since we came here. It was the best way to get close enough to France, and there were other attractions. With the war, there's been plenty to occupy hm. So there. Are you going to turn _me_ in as a traitor?"

"You know I won't, or you wouldn't have told me." Flint shrugged. The two of them were once more staring intently at each other, locked in a high-stakes chess match, testing the other's gambits and defenses. "Well. That does explain your secrecy, I will grant you. And why you felt comfortable with Violet, once you'd worked out who we were – there was at least a better-than-even chance that you would not be hanged as the result of an unguarded comment. But if Jack works for the Spanish, while originally an Englishman, he must be a quite convincing actor himself, as well as having several interesting connections. What if we were in fact to strike a bargain? If you were to help us find Robert Gold, we would rescue this friend of yours from France. Depending on where my son-in-law has ended up, it might be on the bloody way anyway. What do you say?"

A brief, vulnerable, desperate hope flickered in Charlotte's eyes at this, as much as she tried to hide it. "Oh?"

" _Can_ you help us find Robert Gold?"

"I know a few of Jack's contacts," Charlotte said cautiously. "Only by name, we've never actually met. He was working with Governor Montiano in Florida, I know that much. There was some traffic with Governor Güemes of Cuba, as well."

Everyone's eyebrows went up at this, as these were some of the highest-ranking Spanish officials in the New World – no wonder Charlotte had been closed-mouthed, if anything, any word she did not consider carefully might lead hostile parties down this dangerous path after her. "If this Gold is who I think he is, though, he won't be hiding among the Spaniards. He'll have some base in an English territory. The obvious starting point might be Antigua, but – "

Flint grimaced. "We'd all rather avoid Antigua if we could help it."

"I don't think he'd be there," Emma said. "It would be too obvious. He prefers to lurk in the shadows, just off the side of things, and if he returned to Antigua, the word would be out at once. He needs secrecy to operate, it's where he thrives. Jamaica, likewise, is too high-profile. We _know_ he's not on Nassau, we'd certainly have heard, and he's not remotely foolish enough to try his luck there. Much too dangerous."

"So that leaves what, only a few dozen islands to narrow it down to?" Flint scowled ferociously. "Perhaps if we sail around to each of them, hat in hand, we'll have gotten half done by Christmas? If we're not dead, that is?"

"Well," Charlotte said. "Some of them are out. A man like that needs at least _some_ structure to operate, doesn't he? No good to have cunning plots if you're in the middle of nowhere and can't do anything about them. So somewhere lower-profile, but with enough connections to run his empire. That would rule out the smaller islands or places that are too far off the beaten path. That still leaves a list, yes, but a shorter one."

Flint looked at her appraisingly. "Are you coming, then?"

"I can't leave Cecilia," Charlotte said, "and I am not sure I could justify bringing her into danger. Jack's last assignment was supposed to be finished weeks ago, though, and he's not been this late before. He was planning to bring back the money for us before he took a new posting, and. . ."

"Well," Emma said. "It happens we have a few family members likewise unaccounted for, and we can't leave Henry and his family alone here either. If you were to bring your niece with them. . . my brother Charles works on Nassau, and has plenty of connections there. Besides, it was our home, a long time ago. I think we could find something for Violet and the children."

"You do remember what happened when we let Thomas and Jenny go there?" Flint demanded.

"Of course I remember," Emma said, a bit shortly. "But at least Silver isn't there anymore, is he? Not to mention, Nassau would be the best place for us to start our hunt for Gold. It has its ear to the ground on most, if not all, of the Caribbean's sordid gossip. If there is any whisper of some shadowy deal broker, anything like that, any hint of Gold doing what he does, if we are in fact chasing the real man and not just the ghost, someone on Nassau will know. Besides, I thought you wanted to go back?"

"I – " Flint struggled visibly. "I said I couldn't go back, that Captain Flint once more setting foot on Nassau's shores would set off a total fucking firestorm. Of course they would know something, they always know something, but is it worth the risk? And not just me, but all of us."

"I think we're rather past such calculations, aren't we?" Miranda looked weary. "I can't say I'm particularly eager to see the place again either, but if it is what will give us what we need, we shall have to simply grit our teeth and do it. You know we will never be truly safe again, if Robert Gold _is_ alive and has once more made himself a position in which to interfere with our lives. If he is not, and it is only conjecture and baseless fear, we are reprieved, we can return to our other difficulties. But I do think it would explain a great deal if many of those difficulties were discovered to originate from Gold, and that we could douse the bonfire itself, rather than dashing about in a vain attempt to smother each ember."

Flint, Emma, and Charlotte looked back at her with a variety of expressions. Finally Flint said softly, "My sweet, you shouldn't have to – "

"I've made it this far – in better shape than you, I might add – and someone has to be the voice of reason, James." Miranda got to her feet with only a slight wince. "You yourself already noted that it would be quite relevant to our present entanglement with Lord Murray if we were to find his father. And perhaps you and I always knew that we would have to face Nassau once more in our lives. If we already managed Charlestown, perhaps this is not so terrible – at least we were happy there, once, perhaps. So if Mrs. Bell and her niece are willing to accompany us, then yes, I say we go. Emma?"

Emma hesitated. To her, this felt as if it might take attention away from the job of finding Killian, even as she agreed with Miranda that none of them would be safe as long as Gold lived. But she could not deny that there seemed to be a slow-moving avalanche pushing them further and further in the direction of the Caribbean. Nassau, Skeleton Island, Gold's possible hideout – and, if Flint's earlier speculation was anywhere close to accurate, her son Sam could be somewhere down there as well. That alone was reason enough to agree, and Emma had a feeling that if either Gold or Killian caught the slightest whiff of the other's presence, they would go to any length to pursue a confrontation. Killian had never forgiven the man for destroying his life, and Gold was likewise the sort to hold grudges until Judgment Day, especially considering the ruin of his schemes – he would want to force a reckoning. As much as the prospect frightened her, if she found Gold, she very well might also find Killian.

"Aye," Emma said, and set her shoulders. "I say we go."

* * *

It was after dusk when Killian and Regina finally left the Admiralty, faced with the prospect of either rushing to the docks to arrange passage to Barbados immediately, or spending what was sure to be an extremely chilly night in some cut-rate Covent Garden lodging house (which, if Killian knew Covent Garden at all, would come with at least three floozies eager to help him warm things up). Both of them were extremely hungry, having not really eaten since yesterday morning in France, so they stopped long enough to buy a pasty from a food seller on her way home for the evening. Killian wolfed his down in about three bites, and even Regina did not manage to be much more dignified. There was nearly a moment where they smiled ruefully at each other, but awkwardness reasserted itself almost at once. The damp wind whisked at Killian's jacket and Regina's skirt, reminding them that they should see about accommodation one way or the other, and they made their way to one of the many public houses along the docks, which catered to sailors and merchants and passengers about to embark. It was dark and grimy and smelled as if something had long ago died in their attic kingdom, but at least it was a roof to keep the rain off, and they'd trawl the ships at first light tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Killian, however, barely noticed. He once more could not sit or rest, possessed of a manic energy that translated even less well to a tiny garret than it had to the Navy record office. Finally Regina, having had more than her utmost limit, exploded, "Bloody _hell!_ If you don't sit down right now, I swear I don't care what Liam would think, I'm killing you!"

Killian, who had been in the middle of running through a feverishly detailed fantasy of how slowly was too slowly to strangle Gold (a question of exceptional mathematical precision, especially when you only had one hand) whirled on her. He was more than ready for her to actually try something, not that he thought she would give him the satisfaction. "Oh, as if you have ever cared what Liam would – "

"I've been his wife for twenty-two years. I do care what he thinks." Regina stared him down. "And for all you claim that you're doing this to protect your family, I'm not the one who has been spiraling uncontrollably down a black hole of vengeance this entire time. You're doing exactly what you hold against Liam. You're not taking responsibility for what you want, and are disguising it in some grander purpose of sacrifice for your loved ones."

That, despite himself, hit Killian hard. "I'm not – " he said, somewhat less than certainly. "You already agreed that we should go to Barbados, that we – "

"I have to admit," Regina said, cutting over him, "I'm not a selfless person. That is how I've managed to keep your lunkhead brother alive all these years, because he genuinely _never_ thinks of himself. But he's not really _living._ He gets through the days, he manages them, he endures. He's not happy, he's not unhappy, he just is. For all you used to think that you needed him, that you couldn't live without him, he's had a far harder time living without you than you have without him. I know you're a grown man, can't go back and be his little brother again, and he would not want that for you. Now you're asking me to give up the _one_ thing I have, asking Liam to give up the one thing _he_ has, and seeming to enjoy how much it hurts both of us. And after everything he's done for you, no matter your opinion of its morality or necessity or methods, and after I have watched him struggle for over twenty years with what he's done for you and your family and what happened that last night in Charlestown, when I tried everything I know to save Miranda McGraw, after I thought Jennings was going to kill Liam, rape me, desecrate Miranda's body, and do God alone knows what to Henry and Geneva, after Liam finally, _finally_ killed him but part of him died for good as a result – how _dare_ you talk about what Liam feels. How dare you mock me for it. _How dare you."_

Killian felt as if she had swung something very heavy into his face. He tried to speak, but only a faint croaking noise came out. He was tempted to reach down and feel if he still only had one arsehole. "I. . ." he managed at last. "Regina, I. . ."

She held up a hand. "Save the speeches for Liam. If we ever find him, or if it's just more important to do anything else but. In which case, be so good as to tell me. You have the right to do whatever stupid thing you want, I can't take that away from you. But I want to know, so I can leave before it's too late. If you truly think that I might find him by going to Barbados with you, I'll go. Otherwise, I'll make my own arrangements. My concern for you on Liam's behalf extended as far as getting you out of France. Now that's done. I have no obligation to save you from another reckless revenge quest, and neither does he. But he wouldn't share that opinion, would once more twist himself in half trying to stop you, and he can't do that again and survive. So. What's the truth?"

"You were. . . right," Killian said, after a moment. "With what you said earlier, about me punishing him. I have, for a long time, and. . . I'm not proud of it, but I have. But remember, Lady Fiona is Gold's sister. If she is anything like him, she'll want to gloat, she'll want to rub it in. I don't know if they're working together, but I doubt it. Power is never absolute as long as someone else has any of it, after all, and those two would never play nice together. Liam is nearly as delicious for Gold to torment as I am, so of course Lady Fiona would want to dangle him under her brother's nose and then jerk him back. If nothing else, she'll want to eliminate him as a rival and competitor. If she knows he's in Barbados, and I am betting you anything he does, she'll go."

Regina considered this. "Take your brother to settle scores with _her_ brother?" she said. "How. . . symmetrical. I don't deny it's the sort of thing to appeal to a certain kind of twisted mind. And that _is_ a better argument than anything you gave me in the Admiralty. But if you're wrong – "

"Then I'm wrong, aren't I? That happens. There would be nothing else I could do about it. I'm not going to deny I want to get to grips with Gold. I want it very badly. And I also think that my family is in danger as long as he lives. But I also think there is a very good chance that Liam will, in fact, be involved somewhere in this. Bloody hell, they can't have left that far ahead of us, and if they are going to Barbados as well, we could catch them up. Come on, love. Trust me. Just a little. I know I don't deserve it, but. . . we have to start somewhere."

Regina looked at him uncertainly. He could tell that, significantly against her natural instincts, she almost wanted to. That, however, would also involve Killian trusting himself to deal with this logically, not keep pushing and pushing just in the name of getting to Gold, and not to completely lose the forest for the trees. He knew himself well enough to admit that this would be difficult for him, and he had already made a fine start at flying off the handle, but nothing had not yet been done that could not be taken back. He could calm down, take a deep breath, try to rid himself of that nearly mystical madness that the mere mention of Robert Gold's name had the power to conjure over him. Both he and Regina held grudges sometimes past all sense or justification, to the point the ones they were hurting the most were themselves, and yet, if they were to make any success of this, those painful, decades-old resentments would have to be chipped at, loosened, shifted somehow. And in the question of who Killian wanted hurt for old sins more, Liam or Gold, it was not even remotely close to a contest. The silence lingered.

"Fine," Regina said, breaking the spell. "We should get some sleep."

This was easier said than done, as they were kept awake half the night by the creaking of the stairs, the boom of a nearby church bell relentlessly sounding the hours, and the nonstop wheezing of the bloke on the other side of the thin plaster wall, who was apparently dying of consumption on the instant (at least if he did, it might be quieter). They finally dropped off for a few hours, were rattled awake by the dawn carillon, and got dressed. There was still a lingering stiffness in the air, but they seemed slightly more cordial than yesterday, and they managed to collect their things, head out, and obtain breakfast without a major argument.

This accomplished, then began the unappetizing prospect of searching the docks for a captain willing to take them to Barbados on Regina's limited remaining funds, and not ask too many questions about their names and business. Some of the merchants were planning to return to the West Indies for the winter, but did not want to put themselves to the trouble of passengers, and Killian felt an instinctive revulsion at the idea of approaching any of the vessels flying the distinctive ensign of the East India Company, red-and-white-striped with the Union Jack in the upper left corner. On the one hand, the Company was not hand in glove with the British government, as they hated Westminster's constant attempts to tax their lucrative proceeds and interfere with their independent bylaws. On the other hand, they for obvious reasons regarded pirates as the scum of the earth, and all it took was one of them to have heard of Captain Hook to blow the whole thing sky-high. Gold probably had all manner of friends in the Company as well, who would be more than happy to drop his mortal enemy in his lap, trussed up like a chicken.

After they had been turned down half a dozen times, Killian was starting to get desperate. There were not terribly many vessels left to try, and it was either the last sailing of the season or close to it; it was this or nothing. He had just started to wonder what the odds were of swimming to Barbados when a voice called, "Sir? Madam? Are you in need of something?"

Startled, Killian and Regina turned to behold a handsome older gentleman of possibly Indian appearance, with a shaved head, keen dark eyes, and a navy-blue, gold-trimmed caftan and polished boots. "My apologies for surprising you," he said. "I could not help but notice that you have been canvassing the docks for some time. What is it you are in search of?"

"Ah, well. We're in search of passage. To the Caribbean, actually, but it doesn't seem there's anything bloody left."

"I am sailing for the Caribbean in two days." The gentleman raised an eyebrow. "Have you asked me yet?"

"Wh – you have a ship?"

"I do, yes. Where are you wishing to go?"

"Barbados," Killian said, watching the gentleman's face closely. "Bridgetown."

There was no particular knowing look or flicker at that, and the gentleman nodded. "That is not far from where we are bound. If you are willing, I can take you."

Killian was about to accept, then stopped. He could not help but wonder if such a generous offer, the apparent answer to their prayers, came with some nasty strings attached. "What does it cost? Exactly?"

"I am a wealthy man. I do not have particular need of money. If you wish to pay me, of course I shall accept, but it is not necessary." The gentleman inclined his head. "Captain Nemo, at your service."

"Ah – Killian Jones, at yours." Perhaps he should have tried harder to think of an alias, but the truth occurred to him too instinctively. He took Nemo's offered hand, and they shook. "This is my sister-in-law, Regina."

"Madam." Nemo took her hand in turn, and kissed it. "If you would follow me, I can show you the ship. Then you can decide if you wish to take passage."

Cautious, but curious, Killian and Regina followed him to the eastern end of the docklands, the less desirable spaces where foreign merchants without London connections or regular bribes paid to the port authorities were sequestered. Nemo led them across the labyrinth of quays to the place where a large three-masted junk, built in the Chinese style with angular, pleated sails, rode at anchor. The hull was varnished in smooth black lacquer, the name inscribed on the high stern in polished red letters, both in English and what Killian thought was one of the South Asian languages, which he could not be sure. NAUTILUS/நாட்டிலஸ்.

Nemo was watching them avidly, as if waiting to see if the sight of such a decidedly non-European ship would shock their delicate sensibilities beyond all speech, but he seemed somewhat pleased when it did not. "If she is to your satisfaction," he said, "we depart two days from now, on the morning tide. Do you agree?"

"Ah – yes. Yes, thank you. It's just – I'm grateful, mate, believe me. But why are you helping us?"

Nemo smiled faintly. "Perhaps I felt you needed it."

"We – well, we do. But. . ." Killian wasn't even sure why he was pushing so hard, but to say the least, he had had enough of voyages under unexplained circumstances, with unknown masters. "What _do_ you want? Really?"

Nemo considered for a moment. Then he said, "Did you know a man named Edward England?"

"Er – yes, I did." Killian blinked. Edward England had been Charles Vane's quartermaster after Jack Rackham vacated the post, a genial, gentlemanly Irish rascal whom Killian had worked with during the defense and battle of Nassau, and who had invited Killian to come with him to continue his pirate escapades in the Indian Ocean. "I'm going to guess you met him. What happened to him?"

"He died. Quite a while ago. He was marooned on Mauritius with a few of his men, after he refused to kill the captain of a ship his crew had taken. They mutinied and stranded him. After a few months, they managed to sail to St. Augustine's Bay in Madagascar, which was where I met him. He was deathly ill of tropical fever, and indeed he passed away just a few days later. But he had much to say. The natural wish of a man facing mortality and wishing to have his life remembered, his conscience cleared. I myself had recently traveled from Philadelphia, where I had taken another man of England's old acquaintance. We spoke at length. The conversation has stayed with me." Nemo shrugged. "You are _the_ Killian Jones, yes? Captain Hook."

"I. . . yes." Killian blinked again. "Wait – another man of England's acquaintance? Another pirate, you mean? Who did you take to Philadelphia?"

"When we picked him up in his makeshift ketch," Nemo said, "he called himself only Odysseus. Like England, he had too had been marooned on a small island for some time, and had been without human society for at least a year. As he returned somewhat to his wits, he told me that his real name was James. It had once been Flint. He was no longer certain if it still was."

" _Y –_ " Killian's jaw dropped. "Bloody hell! _You_ were the one who rescued Flint from Skeleton Island?!"

"You know him too, I assume?"

"Aye, he's my father-in-law! He and his wife adopted my wife as their daughter a long time ago. We've never known how exactly he escaped, or what happened there. Did he. . . did he tell. . .?"

"That was over twenty years ago," Nemo said. "And what he did say was often less than coherent. I remember nothing that would be particularly enlightening to you."

"Oh." Killian could not help a slight disappointment, even as he wondered if Nemo was being entirely truthful. "Well. You've certainly already done a great service to our family, then. We would be even further indebted for another."

"It is no trouble," Nemo repeated. "Truly. Two days from now?"

"Aye. Two days."

Said two days were less than enjoyable, not least because it rained without cessation and they were trapped in the upstairs room of another dubious lodging house, but it finally cleared the night before, as they went aboard so as to be ready to leave with the ship at dawn. They scarcely had much luggage, though Killian had at least managed to acquire one other set of clean clothes, and the junk was large enough, with multiple small bamboo-walled cabins, that he and Regina could have their own apiece, which was a bloody relief. Everything was crisp and tidy, with a berth and desk of teakwood, a painted screen covered with whimsical designs from some Chinese tale, and small books of fine onionskin paper, calligraphed in elegant characters.

Nemo's crew looked to be of the same pastiche, some Chinese and Japanese, some Ceylonese or Indian like their captain, others North African Mussulmen, still more with the look of Pacific islanders from even more far-flung places. There were at least a dozen languages spoken on board, though Tamil was the lingua franca, and the language in which Nemo gave his orders and communicated decisions; those less fluent got a friend to translate into their particular tongue. Several of them also spoke English, until Killian – himself a reasonably multilingual man, who could count reading of Greek and Latin, and a bit of spoken French and half-remembered Irish to his credit – was thoroughly impressed at their versatility. If he was going to have some time on his hands during the voyage, he should try to pick up at least one.

Killian slept, to his considerable surprise, well that night, and awoke before sunrise, rolling out to dress and ready himself for departure. He was unlikely to be any use to the _Nautilus'_ general functioning, but he was understandably not keen to spend any extra time belowdecks, and emerged topside to watch the crew check the tide, unfurl the sails, and set course. The Chinese method of navigation was via astrolabe, rather than by compass and chart, and Killian watched interestedly, he of course being a connoisseur of all things nautical and navigational. The junk moved away from the quay, beautifully out of place among the drab grey rooftops of London, and down the Thames, with a smoothness like silk or polished glass. Mist rose in ethereal silver vapor from the surface of the river, creating the impression that they sailed within a fine crystal orb, forever seeking the edge but never quite reaching it, doubled back again, circled upon itself. The distant black specks of seabirds winged overhead as the stars began to fade, the smell of the air changing as they reached the estuary and prepared to enter the Channel. Killian supposed he could wave at France again as they went by.

The golden horizon was behind them as they pointed west, the rising sun slowly spilling over the high deck. Still conscious of staying out of the crew's way, Killian could nonetheless not help but investigate further. The _Nautilus_ carried a full complement of cannon, the mouths of the guns carved like roaring dragons so that they would breathe flame when fired, and to judge from the speed they were already making, she could easily outstrip heavier, slower square-riggers. Killian wondered what exactly it was that Nemo did; surely it was not merely charity errands for stranded pirates? The ship bore signs of far travel and hard use, and he felt a brief, unexpected pang of nostalgia, of jealousy. Not that he would trade his family and his settled life and home for anything, but Nemo must have traveled the entire world, to far uncharted lands, to places that one could only dream, seen sights beyond imagination, had grand and thrilling adventures. Some part of the temptation remained in Killian too, the ever-constant lure of the sea and everywhere it could carry you. _I chose, though. And I am choosing again._

"Do you like what you see, Captain Jones?"

Killian turned with a start, having been examining the star chart (at least so he thought it was) carved into the main mast, to see Nemo regarding him with an expression of gentle amusement. "Oh no, you do not have to apologize," he said, as Killian straightened up hastily. "Your interest, as a seagoing man yourself, is natural. What do you think?"

"She's beautiful," Killian said honestly. "Made me miss my old girl – the _Jolie Rouge._ You haven't run across her, have you?" It was worth trying, if Nemo had made inadvertent acquaintances of several other old colleagues. "Formerly the _Imperator,_ captained by Rackham and Bonny?"

"Not that I know of, no," Nemo said. "But some part of a captain's heart always belongs to his ship. This is not the first one I have sailed to bear the name of _Nautilus,_ and I remember those as well, for different reasons. Would you like to walk with me?"

"I. . . yes." Killian was unexpectedly touched. He had of course been wishing he had someone to talk to, missing Sam, needing an equal, a sympathetic outsider who was not his family and was not beholden to that inner circle, but in whom he could confide, and he already felt that he might be able to do so with Nemo. He followed the captain up to the sterncastle, his hair whipping in the fresh breeze. After the dark, cramped, starving hell of his month aboard the _Pan,_ it felt like a gift never again to be taken for granted. They came to a halt at the rail, surveying the goings-on below, and Killian asked, "So how many other _Nautiluses_ have there been?"

"Two," Nemo said. "The first was the Indiaman that I served on, when I led the crew in an uprising, took over the ship, and set them all free, and we sailed as our own men thereafter. That, I think, is something familiar to you?"

"Aye." Killian laughed in rueful acknowledgement. "How did that happen? If you don't mind my asking?"

"Not at all." Nemo did not seem offended by his curiosity. "My father was the captain of a Barbary corsair, and my mother was one of the many daughters of the Mughal emperor. They were married as part of an attempt between the Ottoman and Mughal courts to form an alliance against their common enemy, the Persians – indeed, Nadir Shah sacked Delhi with tremendous ferocity just last year, and I fear it may be a blow from which my mother's people cannot recover, especially with Britain eyeing it like a hungry wolf. In any event, in retribution for my father's many successful raids – nobody took more slaves for the Ottomans than he – I was captured by the same British at the age of nine, and raised in service. That the son of such a prolific slave master should become shackled in bondage himself – it is perhaps only justice, though I certainly did not feel that way at the time. I was recognized to be intelligent and talented, and was placed on one of the East India Company's ships at sixteen. I was twenty-three when I overthrew her command and became captain instead. That was my first _Nautilus._ I sailed her for twelve years."

Nemo hesitated for a long moment. Then he said, "Soon after we took the ship,I fell in love with a young woman we rescued. She loved me as well, and we were married. We had a son. She wanted to leave the sea, to make a real home. I told her that we would, soon. But the East India Company did not forget that I had captured one of their ships so egregiously, dared to revolt, set a dangerous example. They viewed me as little better than an upstart pirate and a Barbary monster myself for those twelve years, and finally they caught up to me. There was a battle. We were outgunned. My _Nautilus_ was destroyed and sunk. My wife and son drowned."

"I. . ." Killian recoiled from even trying to imagine it. "Christ, I'm sorry."

"I survived, obviously," Nemo said, "and became consumed with the desire for revenge. So if you follow, I wished revenge for their revenge for my revenge on their revenge on my father, at least. I captured my second _Nautilus,_ a Spanish man-of-war, and gathered to me anyone who would help me in such an aim. If they promised me my objective, I listened, no matter how dangerous or forsaken such men might be, how empty their promises, or how little it would ultimately satiate me. This, I think, you will also recognize?"

"Aye," Killian said, much more slowly. He was unsettled for obvious reasons, given how he had spent the vast majority of his time since discovering Gold was alive, and the circumstances that had first precipitated his descent into Hook. He almost wanted to walk away before finishing this conversation, but he had a feeling that Nemo, however gently, was not going to let him. "And?"

Nemo shrugged. "It ended as it must. We attacked and destroyed a British ship near the coast of Norway, which we had mistaken for a Company vessel, hunting and pursuing many weeks to get it alone and without hope of aid. It was not. We realized that only when we had left no survivors. In my greed and blindness, we had drawn too near the dangerous water there, the place the locals call the _Moskstraumen –_ the Maelstrom. It drew in the ship and pulled her under. For a second time, I survived the destruction of my _Nautilus,_ but was left with nothing. Neither family nor revenge, neither pride in the past nor hope for the future."

He paused again, looking over the sea. "This is the third _Nautilus,"_ he said at last. "She sails as a free ship with free men, with those I have found in chains of one sort or another. We do not seek for anyone's revenge, or speak of our pasts, or bow to any country or crown – or hold them as our enemy. We fight only if attacked, and not before, nor for personal gain or worldly enrichment. This is the place where men come when they have put aside such old things."

Killian opened his mouth, then shut it. He reckoned that he and Nemo had to be nearly the same age, the other man perhaps three or four years older, and that perhaps their lives were bending on eerily similar trajectories, parallel and yet opposite. At last he said, "Which _Nautilus_ did you rescue Flint with?"

"The first," Nemo said. "The Indiaman. The one I sailed as a younger man, the one I took from my captors with the strength of my own hands, with my wife and then my son at my side, when I still envisioned a home away from the sea. I took him to Philadelphia because I pitied him, this man so broken by the world as to barely recall his own name, so harrowed by revenge and grief and guilt that only a shell of him remained, and all had to be learned anew. I thought, then, the worst fate in the world would be to end up like him, and vowed that I never would, that of course I could prevent it by my efforts and worthiness. I was, of course, quite naïve."

Killian was quiet. It was clear to him that _Nemo_ was a name chosen anew for this man as _Hook_ had been for him, as _Flint_ had been for James, but to quite the opposite purpose. He wanted to say something, but did not know what, especially when Nemo turned to him and said calmly, "So. Why is it that you and your sister-in-law are traveling to Barbados?"

"We. . ." Killian hesitated. He did not want to lie, especially after Nemo had just been so honest with him, but nor did he feel quite up to the truth. "I thought there might be an. . . old friend of mine there. I. . . it's been complicated."

"Of course," Nemo said courteously. "Life is scarcely anything less. The prospect of seeing an old friend, however, would normally make a man much more joyful."

Killian squirmed again. "Not a friend, exactly."

Nemo's expression said that he had suspected this, but he did not rub salt in the wound. He once more turned to regard the sea, until he said, "I imagine Captain Hook must have several such men, that he has darkly dreamed of seeing again. Would this be Robert Gold, then?"

"How did – " Killian stared at him, wondering if Nemo had also concealed a talent for reading minds, before it struck. "Ned England told you about our battle against him in Nassau, and his particular grudge against me. Didn't he."

"He did," Nemo said. "And I have heard other rumors, but never mind that. It must truly be an outstanding grudge, that it weighs so heavily against all else. Your sister-in-law. . . would that be your wife's sister, or your brother's wife? I suspect the latter."

"You suspect correctly." Killian stared down at his hand and hook on the railing. With that, since he could no longer help it, he told Nemo about Liam, and his resistance to seeing him again, and how long he had stayed away, and what Regina had said to him, and his own dawning, uncomfortable realization that she was right. That while constantly acknowledging and dwelling on his own flaws and failures, he had nonetheless become comforted by the idea that he was still better than Liam at grappling with them, that he was somehow more honest, more self-aware, braver. Had his own family now, and was determined, beyond all reason, to prove it.

Nemo did not interrupt as Killian spoke, listening politely until he was certain that he had finished. Then he said, "That is a sad story. I am sorry for both of you, that it has been this way."

"Aye." Killian found that his voice came hard, scraping in his throat. "Do you. . . do you think he's right? Or that I am?"

"I suspect it is altogether more complicated, as you yourself pointed out earlier." Nemo inclined his head. "But let me tell you – if you will indulge me once more – a story. Only a brief one, and this time not about myself. It is a story about when the Spanish _conquistadores_ first arrived in the New World, several hundred years ago, and found a beautiful, glittering, advanced civilization. The Aztecs and the Incas had pyramids, had cities, had calendars and science and clean running water, had maps of the stars, had art and literature, had myths and legends, had – as all men do – their own bloodthirstiness and war. And what did the conquistadores see? What did they dream of? Gold. There must be mountains of it, they thought. There must be gold. They looked at the Aztec temples and saw the mosques of the Mussulman, the ever-present enemy of Christendom reborn, and so they called the men they met Turks. They judged them worthy to live, or not, depending on how much they thought they were like the Turks. Gold and savages. That is what they saw. Not what was there, but gold and savages. And so they destroyed everything, and set up the cross instead, and blessed themselves for a job well done. That is what happens, that is the damage that is done, which can never be taken back, when all a man sees is Gold."

Killian could not help but admire the elegance of this turn of phrase, even as he also could not miss the underlying warning. "So what? You think Regina's right? We should just go back to searching for Liam, and not – "

"You and your brother have had a long struggle," Nemo said. "I understand that. But I must ask what you are so frightened he can possibly take from you. You have parents-in-law, wife, sons, a daughter, grandchildren, friends, a long and rich life. Your brother and his wife have not. Not by your fault, but not by your innocence, either. You do not owe him anything, of course, nor does he to you. Yet I would have thought you might have found it in your heart to open the door you have so long held shut, just a crack, and see what light shone through."

"I thought – " Killian started, then stopped. He was grateful for the spray that blew on his face as he looked away. Finally he said, "I'm. . . I'm sorry."

"It is not your apology which I need," Nemo said. "Nor do you need my forgiveness. I note, however, that my crew, who have often lost their entire families, been torn from the land of their birth, who have served years or decades as slaves under white men, would think you exceptionally fortunate to have the dilemma of deciding whether or not to return to the bosom of the man who loved you first, and raised you as best he could. I do not recall the name my mother gave me. There must have been one, and sometimes if I strain, I can just remember the shape of her smile. But I do not remember what she called me. Nor I will not call myself by the name the British gave me, for that was never me, but an artifice of my overseers. I chose _Nemo_ long ago, and it has served me well enough. But I would give anything in the world, journey anywhere, sacrifice anything, to hear my mother speak to me, and have her whisper my name once more, my true name. Yet you spurn your brother, when he lives still and wishes nothing more than to see you, and have done so for years, with no cost to you and much to him. As before, I understand why you stayed away. But it is my most honest verdict that it is an act of immeasurable and, one hopes for your sake not unforgivable, selfishness."

"I. . . always have been." Killian took a slow breath. "Selfish. In one way or another, and then I loved Emma, and married her, and had my children, and they were my world instead. I had no need for my own self anymore, not when I could give them everything, and see them happy. Perhaps I feared that if I looked again – and now I have – that I would discover that old selfish soul still lurking beneath. With Liam, with facing it, I. . . I did. I was."

"We are all terribly tender and torn-apart creatures," Nemo said. "It is to your great credit that you know so, as many selfish people never once do. I will not counsel you what to do one way or another. If you still wish to go to Barbados and confront Gold one last time, I will take you there. I only ask that you think, and think well, on what you mean to do, and if it is remotely worth what it will cost you."

Killian nodded, at a loss for words, and Nemo clapped a hand on his shoulder. Then, leaving him there with his thoughts, the captain turned and walked away.

They sailed steadily for the next several days. The _Nautilus_ continued to make surpassing speed, and Nemo told Killian about the Chinese admiral Zheng He, the fifteenth-century explorer, soldier, and sailor who had been to Arabia, Africa, Java, and the Indian Ocean, with a vast fleet of over three hundred junks and thirty thousand men. He had made seven fabled voyages, rather like the fictional hero Sinbad of _A Thousand and One Nights,_ the stories of which Nemo also knew well. He spoke at least eight languages, and seemed to be genuinely loved by his men; if he had plucked them from dire situations, perhaps that explained it, but Nemo said that he had never forced anyone to join or to stay. "If you found that you wished to serve with us for a time," he said, the fifth evening out, having invited Killian and Regina into his cabin for supper, "we would of course welcome you."

"I'm fifty-three and I've got one hand," Killian said wryly. "I've enjoyed this journey far more than my last one, but I'm not sure what use I'd be to you. Besides, either way, I have to get home to my family. I can't just run off for a lark without telling my wife."

"Of course," Nemo agreed. "In any event, the offer stands. What of your sons? Are they sailors too?"

"No. It's my daughter, Geneva, who's the captain in the family, and a damned good one." Killian grinned with pride. "My elder son – stepson, but no matter – Henry, is a teacher and printer, has a wife and two children. My younger son, Sam, he's. . . well, he's still making his way."

At that, he glanced sidelong at Regina, suddenly aware that it might be delicate to talk about his children in front of her, but she was perched almost on the edge of her seat, as if hungry to hear as much about them as she possibly could. Killian himself missed the lot of them so agonizingly that he would have happily held forth for hours, told both Regina and Nemo far more than they ever wanted to know, but at that moment, they were unexpectedly interrupted by a knock on the cabin door. Nemo called, "Come in."

It opened, and the first mate entered with a look of some anxiety. He crossed the floor, bent down, and spoke to Nemo in low-voiced Arabic, to which the captain listened with a slight frown. Then he stood up. "Excuse me," he said to Killian and Regina. "Mr. Rahman is of the impression that we are being pursued."

Both Killian and Regina stood up as well, as anyone on their tail was unlikely to be good news, and hastily followed Nemo out onto the deck. The late-evening gloaming had almost, but not quite, deepened to true black, and several crewmen were gathered on the stern, pointing at the sea behind them, as Nemo and his guests hurried up the stairs to look. One of the sailors handed his captain the spyglass, and Nemo peered at the darkening sea, as Killian strained his own eyes, not quite as keen as they had been. There was a low-lying fog bank about a thousand yards astern, in which could possibly – but not certainly – be discerned the outline and movements of what looked like another ship. If so, they were clearly trying to approach in secrecy, and for that matter, doing a good job of it. The lanterns were doused, and it was taking care not to sail ahead of the fog – a maneuver which required a skilled captain to pull off, well aware of the confluence of current, wind, and the ship's capabilities. Killian had a brief memory of a battle during the war of the Spanish succession, almost forty years ago now, when he and Liam had surprised and defeated a French fifty-gunner by concealing the _Imperator_ with a similar move. For a moment, he had an utterly absurd idea, then stopped. Bloody hell, of course not.

Nemo shut the spyglass. "Load the cannons," he ordered. "It could be nothing, and we will not engage if they do not, but I prefer to be prepared, just in case."

He turned to repeat the order in Tamil, as the first mate gave it in Arabic, and another man in Chinese. The crew dispersed like a well-oiled machine, more sail was loosed, and the _Nautilus_ moved so quickly over the choppy water that it felt as if they had wings, but the other ship – she was starting to become clearer, it was not their imagination – was still gaining. Now she was eight hundred yards astern, now only five hundred, and then the long nines boomed and flashed, the shot whistling and splashing into the water barely shy of the _Nautilus'_ keel.

"We are not flying British _or_ Spanish colors," Nemo said. Considering that his ship had just been fired on, he still sounded remarkably calm. "Neither nation should have cause to attack us, thinking us an agent of the other. Mr. Rahman, what is their ensign?"

"British, I think." The first mate opened the spyglass to look again. He added something else in Arabic that made Nemo frown again and turn to order the crew for more speed, and perhaps a warning shot of their own. Even in wartime, there were codes of conduct that governed firing on another ship unprovoked, especially with no enemy flag to justify a first attack, and these ill-behaved newcomers were flouting them, which was good as flying a red streamer to signify no quarter. The _Nautilus'_ stern guns thundered and flashed in response, throwing an eerie orange glow against the sky long enough for them to get half a glimpse of the oncoming ship. It looked like a brigantine, slender and two-masted, built for speed. For another wild instant, Killian thought that Emma's old ship, the _Blackbird,_ had been resurrected from the watery grave where Henry Jennings had sent it long ago, but of course that was not the case. But if he could just figure out what was putting his hackles on such edge about this, apart from the obvious fact of being fired on, and to do so in time to –

The other ship was still closing on the _Nautilus'_ starboard aft quarter, running hard with the wind, almost a match in speed. In another few minutes they would be level enough to try a broadside, and Nemo barked at his crew to man their own guns in the case of such an eventuality. But Killian, following an instinct he had no time to explain, took the spyglass from Mr. Rahman, balanced it in his hook, and fiddled the lens with his hand. Pointed it at the deck of the other ship, at its captain, the man by the helm, the –

In that moment, the shock completely stopped his heart.

In the next, the world exploded.


	15. XV

Geneva's first instinct was to fight. She twisted like an eel, stamped on his booted foot, and bit at the hand over her mouth, which caused him to pull it back with a curse, then swing his fist into her cheek hard enough to make her see stars. "I wouldn't do that, lass. Besides, weren't we getting along? Scream," he added, as she drew breath in preparation for a good yell, "and I'll blow this pretty boat of yours sky-high. See that there, that barrel? It's full of black powder, and if it sparks, well. Enough to tear off the bow, we'd sink in minutes. Believe me, I can shoot it faster than anyone could possibly scramble down here to help you. Understand?"

So furious that she could feel it thrumming in her body, like a harp string wound to the point of snapping, Geneva nodded.

"Good." Israel Hands let go of her slowly, gun still held at the ready, as he swung around to face her, keeping her back against the wall. He looked even more grizzled and insane than before, a handsome black eye blooming where Thomas must have punched him and a half-healed gash across his temple. "Now. You , me, and Mrs. Rogers here, we can have a conversation."

"You," Geneva said furiously to Eleanor. "How could you do this? With _him?"_

"It's _my_ fault? You hired him!" Eleanor's angry flush was visible even in the low, dank light of the hold. "If you considered him a suitable cohort, why shouldn't I?"

Geneva opened her mouth, realized that she had no good comeback for that, and shut it. She still wanted to scream, but she did not dare risk calling Hands' bluff with the barrel, as he was exactly crazy enough for it not to be a bluff at all. Powder stocks on warships were kept deep below decks in the dark and cool, run up to the guns by boys known as "powder monkeys" during battle, and everyone lived in fear of an unguarded flame reaching them – if the enemy's bombardment hit you in the magazine, you would be a spectacularly glorious fireball in the span of, as Hands had said, minutes or less. Black powder was also the most explosive and dangerous variety, far more volatile than the everyday saltpeter, and the spark from a gunshot would be more than enough to detonate it. Hands must have hauled it aboard whenever he and Eleanor stowed away – bloody hell, Geneva was going to _kill_ those bat-blind lummoxes in Bristol, who had had to be argued with every step of the way and then could not even be bothered to post night watchmen properly on the quays. For a moment, she was completely and utterly in sympathy with Jim's desire to sod the lot of them.

"Now then," Hands said, keeping his gun trained on the powder cask, warning Geneva against any attempt to tackle him, which even she knew was a bad idea – she was a young woman in long skirts, and he was a tough, violent, heavily armed ex-berserker with no qualms about blowing the lot of them to kingdom come. "What we want is simple. You don't tell anyone we're down here. Bring food twice a day. Oh, and – " he gestured at Eleanor – "the lady wants a blanket. When we reach the Caribbean, you'll divert our course to Bridgetown, so she can see her bloody son again. Then you will take the rest of us to Skeleton Island, with the bearings Mr. Silver will provide. We'll keep him alive that long. Once we've gotten there, you'll lure him down here, and I'll settle him."

"Are you – " Geneva choked. _Are you out of your mind?_ was definitely far beside the point. "What, you think we'll get to Skeleton Island, you'll scoop handfuls of treasure into your pockets, and skip off into the sunset a free and happy man – after you've gruesomely murdered Silver, of course? Good _bloody_ luck!"

"That treasure belongs to me." Hands' basilisk stare did not waver. "Half of it was given to Blackbeard, and I'm the last survivor of Blackbeard's crew. Her fucking husband – " he jerked his head at Eleanor again – "killed Blackbeard, captured the _Revenge,_ and destroyed the _Walrus,_ a fact I am generously choosing, for the moment, to overlook. Whatever there is on that island, it's mine, and I won't have John Silver fucking it up. I know that man, what he is, what he does. I would have killed him long before if we'd crossed paths, but now, as I said, we need him long enough to get us there. You're lucky I'm not asking – yet – for the head of that uncle of yours, the one who assaulted me in the street. But fail me in any way, and I kill him. He sleeps belowdecks, doesn't he? I could sneak out of here of a night and slit his throat before you ever stirred a whit. Oh, and that Negro cunt of Silver's. I can find her too."

Geneva stared at him, rendered actually speechless with fury. Finally she said, "Fuck you. I'm not doing any of it."

"Aren't you?" Hands wrenched up the lid of the barrel, reached in, and let a handful of glittering black powder trickle through his gnarled fingers, smelling faintly and acridly of sulfur. "Thought I was lying about this, then?"

Geneva threw a desperate look at Eleanor, as if willing to promise that if they would personally deliver Matthew into her loving clutches if she would just smother Hands in his sleep, but the other woman steadfastly avoided her eyes. Geneva herself was beginning to develop a profound and profoundly unexpected sympathy with the junior Rogers, and understand why he had found a career in the Navy to be infinitely preferable to the continued company of his mother. "Bridgetown?" she said, trying to stall for time. "In Barbados? Is that where your son is?"

"It's where he was sent, yes," Eleanor said shortly. "And where the lord he works for has his residence, so even if he's not there, we can find out where he's gone. I'm not eager to spend the entire voyage in this filthy pit, but if it's what I need to do to see Matthew again, I will."

"And has it ever occurred to you that Matthew may not want to see _you?_ If this is the way you domineer everyone, no wonder. I get the sense you've always liked having things that belong to you, and widowed, penniless, scorned by your stepchildren, and reviled by everyone who remembers your betrayal of Nassau – I heard that you personally ensured Charles Vane's execution went through, and he was once your lover – no wonder you've seized onto your son as the last thing that was _yours._ So what, you can destroy him too? Poor lad."

"You don't know anything about me or my son, girl," Eleanor snapped. "So don't – "

"Girl?" Geneva laughed. "What, is that an insult? And coming from a woman who long struggled to prove herself in a man's world, boasted about the powerful ones she had overthrown and seduced and destroyed? What happened to you, Eleanor Guthrie? Not Mrs. Rogers, not the governor's wife and widow, not the one remembered as a bitch and a harpy and a traitor, but _Eleanor._ The girl yourself. How old were you when your father brought you to Nassau? Ten?"

"Thirteen," Eleanor said, half proudly, half as if she had not meant to at all. "But that is immaterial. Get me to Bridgetown, I'll see that he doesn't hurt your uncle, or Madi. I don't want Mr. Scott's daughter harmed. I don't."

"So you think you can control another dangerous man?" Geneva said incredulously. "First Vane, then Rogers, now Hands? Are you bedding with him too? No, don't answer that, I want to sleep again sometime in my life. I know you change allegiances like lacy handkerchiefs, but folk thought you actually loved Rogers, so much as you could. Then again, they thought you loved Vane too, didn't they?"

Eleanor's eyes blazed. She clearly wanted to demand how Geneva knew so much – but then again, Geneva had grown up surrounded by tales of her family's past, and this was just interesting history to her, not directly relevant. At least not until now. Loathsome as she found Eleanor, Geneva did not want to leave any woman alone with Israel Hands, as God knew if he would then decide to exact payment of one sort or another. Aye, Eleanor should have thought of this before throwing her fortunes in with him, but she was still uncomfortably correct that Geneva had been the one originally planning to bring him on board. Of the two stowaways, Eleanor was the one who might not blow up the ship, and the one Geneva _might_ be willing to help if no other alternatives arose, but if Madi discovered that she was aboard. . . and then they found Hands. . .

"So?" Hands said, when neither of the women offered anything else. "Clear? Food. Twice a day. Vary the routine so that nobody sees you going down and coming up at the same time. Tell them there's a leak down here you're keeping an eye on – there will be a fucking big one if you're not careful , remember – or whatever else. Anyone comes down snooping, I kill them. It's more than one. . ." He pantomimed firing his pistol into the powder. "I have another barrel stowed aboard to boot. Don't try me, girl."

Geneva's hands were shaking, so she clenched them. She could not tell Thomas, Silver, Madi, or Jim about this without at least one of them storming down to investigate, and she most unfortunately had no doubt about Hands' willingness to carry out his threat. How could she have misjudged this man so badly, been so arrogant and angry and determined to get one over on Silver – just like sailing into the storm and losing Mr. Arrow, this situation was a result of her mistakes. She had to fix it herself, could not put any of her friends or family at further risk – not even Silver. If nothing else, she needed time to find a way to separate Israel Hands from things that went boom. Somehow.

"Fine," she said, through gritted teeth. "Deal."

Once she had spat in her palm and shaken hands with Hands (having a brief urge to tear it off) the stowaways retreated behind their fortress of sacks and barrels, and Geneva left the hold in a total daze, so inattentively that she banged her head on the low beam it was usually second nature to duck. She climbed back to the deck, into a cool, starry night that she would otherwise have enjoyed, but barely noticed. She blundered into the cabin in a state of total distraction, stubbed her toe and swore hotly, and Madi looked up with a frown. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Geneva said again, hopping on the spot and clutching her foot. "Fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine."

Madi regarded her with a slightly arched eyebrow, but decided against pressing for details. Geneva sat down at her desk and pulled out the captain's log, intending to start a new entry for this voyage, but her hand kept trembling enough to leave unsightly blotches of ink on the page, and she could not collect her thoughts sufficiently to transform them into words. What did she write anyway, that they were at risk of instant fiery death from a madman if she set a toe wrong for the rest of the journey, and that it might still result in loved ones being murdered in their beds just because? Perhaps later, she could take a gun and go back, catch Hands unawares, convince Eleanor not to raise the alarm. The shot would likely wake the ship, and she'd have to kill him with the first one, as even wounded, Hands could still trigger the explosion –

Geneva sat staring into space, a sick, sour weight in her stomach, until Madi finally settled down to sleep. Then she got up, quietly opened the sea chest, and took out one of the long-barreled dueling pistols inside. She was a fair shot, but in the rolling pitch-darkness of the hold, it would be extremely chancy. The only way to ensure complete accuracy was to do it at point-blank range, she'd have to somehow get close enough without rousing Hands – if he was asleep at all, and not just sitting up waiting for her to try something – and if the ball ricocheted, there was the risk of it hitting the powder. As well, Geneva had never killed a man before. Not even really been in a situation where she thought she might have to. A few scrapes with aggressive drunkards and Spanish customs agents and the like, and a few violent solutions, but not cold-blooded, staring-into-their-eyes murder. But if the alternative was letting this threat remain hanging over them, she had to. She knew her father and her grandfather had killed people, many of them. She'd ask later, or perhaps she would simply not mention it at all.

Geneva opened the chased-silver ammunition case, rammed down the wadding and the ball and the twist of powder, considered, then loaded the second pistol as well. She stuck them into the waistband of her skirt, pulled on a cloak to cover them, and stealthily let herself out of the cabin. She ducked into the galley to get some of the leavings from supper, as perhaps this would be enough of a cover to let her get close without instantly piquing Hands' suspicions, and put them on a tray. Then she tucked it under her arm, emerged, started for the ladder, and –

"G – Captain?"

Geneva about had a heart attack, dropping the food everywhere and nearly yanking out one of the pistols, as she spun around to see Jim watching her in total confusion. "How long have you been standing there?" she hissed. "Why the hell aren't you in bed?"

"I was talking with. . . with Mr. Silver." The slight hesitance in Jim's tone told her that he knew this was a subject of which she might disapprove. "He went below a bit ago, but I was just enjoying the stars. It's been a long time since I was out of Bristol, out on the water, and. . ." He looked curiously at the fallen tray. "Did you not eat earlier? I was wondering where you were."

"Wasn't. . . hungry." The lie sounded feeble even as she uttered it, and she wasn't entirely sure that Jim believed it – he had proven to be unsettlingly perceptive, this awkward, quiet, quietly angry young man, who nonetheless was nothing but the soul of gallantry and respect to her. "Well, the stars are nice, aren't they? But it's late. How about you sleep?"

"Aye, well, perhaps." Jim paused, then started for the ladder. "Actually, I thought I heard some odd noises in the forward bulkhead earlier. I might take a look, if it's all right, before I – "

"No. Oh, no, no, I've got that entirely under control." Geneva practically ran to block his way. This put them in suddenly close proximity, enough that she had to tip her chin back to look into his face, which was confused but not suspicious. "I looked earlier, actually, there's just a leak that didn't quite seal up all the way. Probably just cargo shifting. Nothing to worry about."

"If you say so." Jim's brows furrowed. "Are you sure you're all right? You look very strange."

"I just – " Geneva took a step, leading with her hip. "The other night, when you – you saw me, I don't suppose it disgusted you, did it?"

"Er," said Jim, with the expression of a man just asked if a hundred thousand pounds a year was enough, or only fit for unstylish paupers. "Er, no, no it did not, no, my lady, not at all. No. But you – I would certainly never – "

"No, of course not." Geneva smiled enticingly, putting both hands on his chest. "Even finding the two of us alone like this, you wouldn't – "

She was trying to get him to scamper off in embarrassment as fast as he had with the inadvertent bath voyeurism, but instead this seemed to turn his feet into stumps of wood. He blinked dumbly, hand rising of its own accord as if to caress her face, then dropped it instantly. "Geneva – ?"

"You're right. I don't know what came over me." Geneva stepped back, offering an apologetic smile. Keeping a tight grip on his arm, she practically dragged him to the other ladder, the one leading to the crew's quarters, and ushered him down it. They had just started toward the hammocks when there was a faint but distinct crash from the direction of the bow. Jim's head turned, and he took a step toward it. Without thinking, Geneva grabbed him by the shirt, pulled him close, and kissed him.

Jim's mouth opened in shock, allowing her to deepen the kiss, as she tugged his arm and angled him more satisfyingly against her. His lips were warm and generous, and not at all sure what they should be doing, but he picked up the knack quickly, their heads turning, hands sliding. It was only when said hands began to venture toward her waist that Geneva remembered herself. It would be extremely difficult to explain why she was larking about with two loaded pistols in her bodice, and the entire point of this had been distraction. She caught his wrists, pulling back, and Jim, mistaking it for offended propriety, flushed ferociously. "My lady, I didn't – "

"Just call me Geneva, all right?" Their foreheads and noses were brushing, still sharing air, her hand toying in the loosened chestnut strands on the back of his neck. No point striving for the formality of "Captain" after that, at least between the two of them, and "my lady" made Geneva to look around in case the Queen was approaching. "You really should go to bed."

"Aye. Bed." Jim shook his head like a stunned ox, then stepped back and tried to make some sort of polite bow, which was so adorable that Geneva had to bite her lip. At least the immediately preceding events had done their work admirably in making Jim forget about any odd noises whatsoever, as well as possibly his own name, and Geneva felt a twinge of guilt as she watched him reel off down the gantry. It would have been easier to dally with Jim like this if he wasn't so damned _earnest_ , was the usual sort of charming, devil-may-care rascal who knew how the rules of a passing fancy worked. She didn't _want_ to break the poor lad's heart, but if she hadn't stopped him from investigating. . . well, it was just a kiss, not a betrothal or marriage, and if Jim could not work that out, it was not her bloody fault. . .

Momentary pleasure evaporated, feeling the return of the sick sourness in her stomach, Geneva turned and started the other way. She'd put Jim off the scent, but she had missed her chance, as that crash surely meant that one or the other was awake. Unless it hadn't been Hands and Eleanor at all, and just someone falling out of their hammock, but. . . oh Jesus, what if someone else had gone down into the hold while she was occupied? She'd be a fool to think that a gun was the only way in which Hands could kill someone, as he could surely break your neck or strangle you with a minimum of noise, especially if he caught you unprepared. Jim said that he and Silver had been talking – if Silver had also made note of strange noises –

Geneva made her way through the crew's hammocks as fast as she could, pressed to the hull so as to avoid disturbing them; at least any noise she made was covered by the racket of their snoring. Emerging with the ripe odor of unwashed man in her nose, she peered into the lieutenants' quarters that Silver and Thomas shared: two bunks, a desk, a trunk, and a lantern, in a compartment no bigger than twelve feet by six feet. Both bunks were occupied – Thomas slept on the top, Geneva noted, so Silver did not have to struggle to climb up and down. It made her heart twist, as that was just the sort of man her uncle was. Even if he did not like Silver much, even if he had misgivings about the promotion to first mate (despite himself removing the alternative now hiding in their hold) he would still extend this basic human courtesy. There was certainly no privacy to speak of, so perhaps it simply was not possible to hold a grudge, or at least not much of one, against someone so relentlessly, unceasingly present. You had to exist together nonetheless.

Letting out a slow breath of relief, Geneva started to move on, but Silver stirred, squinting up at her. "Eh?" he said groggily. "Something amiss, Captain?"

"No, nothing." Geneva slid the slat shut quickly, embarrassed to be caught snooping, and listened intently for any sound of them getting up to follow her. But for once, Silver must have decided not to interfere, and there was nothing. She half-wished he had. Anything to put off the prospect that loomed before her as inescapably as a colossus.

Geneva reached the entrance to the hold in a few more moments, leaned against the wall, and tried to bring herself to do it. She would not get a better chance. Hands wouldn't be able to see her _or_ the powder cask very well, darkness worked both ways as a disadvantage. She took out her pistol, pulled the hammer back and inspected the mechanism, could be confident (so much as was ever possible) that it would not misfire. She listened hard. No more thumps or crashes, at least for the moment. Perhaps they, or at least one of them, had gone to sleep. Even a demon like Hands could not stay awake every instant of the next four or five weeks.

 _Go. Go on. Do it._ Just step onto the ladder, descend into the abyss, and battle a monster.

Geneva tried as hard as she possibly could, but she could not move. She had come over in cold sweat, stomach twisting like a clenched fist, could not cast herself over the brink and into the void. Was – for a woman whose bravery and brash nature was one of the things she liked about herself, whom Thomas had rebuked for recklessness – too afraid. It was just the _Rose's_ hold, she had been there a thousand times, but it was different tonight. _Come on. COME ON!_

It was no good. She couldn't. The terror was still coursing through her too acutely, turning every nerve to ice, and she pulled up her feet, which seemed to have grown roots to the boards, and stumbled away. Climbed up to the deck, reaming herself savagely for her cowardice, and gulped lungfuls of cold night air until it hurt. The men on the graveyard shift were sitting around a brazier by the capstan; the sea was calm and the wind was steady, and the sheets didn't need much tending, just one of them at the helm. They glanced over in some concern at her abrupt, harrowed-looking appearance. "Cap'n?"

"I'm fine." Geneva strode over as commandingly as she could, which wasn't very. Her legs felt like jelly, and all she could see was the flame of the brazier, think about the cask of black powder in the hold and the other, wherever on the ship it might be. "Just – put that out, would you? Put it out!"

They exchanged baffled looks, but did as ordered. Bereft of the warmth, they got up and began to wander around to occupy themselves until the bell would sound at dawn, and they could go below. Geneva, while she went into her cabin, watched tensely through the window. What if one of them decided to go down into the hold for some unknown reason, what if –

She must have fallen asleep sitting up, because the next thing she knew, her cheek was mashed against the window, sunlight was spilling across the floor, and she had an absolutely horrendous cramp in her back that made her groan when she tried to straighten up. The _Rose_ was clearly still intact, afloat, and underway, so evidently nobody had discovered Hands lurking in the darkness – for a brief and desperately hopeful moment, Geneva thought it had just been an extended bad dream. But the muzzles of the pistols still digging into her sides, as well as the grooves of her stays, made clear that it wasn't. It was also clear that she was going to go mad herself after another few days of this, let alone the rest of the voyage. _But what the fuck do I do about it?_

Head pounding, Geneva did her best not to look as unhinged as she felt, unloaded the pistols and stuck them back into the trunk, and emerged into the breezy midmorning. She felt like a grub crawling out from under a fungus, so of course it was then that Silver appeared out of thin air. "Captain? I was hoping we could have a word, in my capacity as first mate. I promise this goes no further. But what's wrong? Please. Please let me help you."

Geneva looked up at him: the weathered blue eyes, the thick streaks of grey in the rough dark ponytail and beard, the expression of apparently sincere concern. Even Thomas had said that he thought Silver was preferable to Hands, but so was nearly every man in the world, as well as every woman, so that was hardly a ringing endorsement. And Hands had said he wanted to murder this one personally. Not that Geneva could blame anyone for disliking Silver, even to the point of using weapons to prove it, but. . . as wrong-headedly as Silver was going about this, much as he kept compounding his mistakes, she did get the sense that he was genuine about wanting to protect them all from Billy Bones, and that he still had deep feelings for Flint. Not that that made any difference. Thomas' remark that there was no more perilous prospect than to be cared for by John Silver, Madi's belief that his attempts to make things right after the death of their son had only worsened their estrangement. . . Geneva almost wanted to scream with frustration. You couldn't safely care for him, or think that he had the remotest notion what ordinary human relationships looked like, or that his presence was an overall positive factor, but nor could you disdain him, or completely dislike him, or dismiss him as nothing. She didn't want Hands to kill him, at least. She could not put him in danger, even if it meant withholding the truth from him, as he himself had done to others so often. If that was the only sort of caring he understood, then perhaps he could sense that she was trying to keep him alive. Perhaps.

They kept looking at each other, silently imploring, raw and vulnerable. If Hands needed Silver's knowledge to make it to Skeleton Island, he could not kill him outright just yet, could he? But he could certainly torment him in any number of other ways, especially as Silver had one leg and could hardly make a quick escape, and if anyone else came down to see what was going on, well then, there went the _Rose._ What with her current awkwardness around Thomas, Geneva wanted to throw herself on Silver's admittedly considerable expertise and have someone older and wiser than her sort it out. It was fatherly and it was not. Not desire, not even friendship, exactly, and yet something that knew if she did tell him, it would hurt him, and she could not do that. Hurt him, and them, the ship, and everyone else. Perhaps later – but not now. Not now.

"Nothing," Geneva said. "Nothing's wrong, Mr. Silver. You may go."

* * *

Sam awoke slowly, from an extremely unexpectedly yet embarrassedly enjoyable dream that he was not quite ready to be parted from just yet – only to realize, as sense returned, that it was not entirely a dream. There was a warm, strong, solid presence against his back, an arm draped over his hip, and a mouth brushing the nape of his neck, which elicited a small shiver where it touched. For a moment, he was completely baffled as to how he could have woken up in such a pleasing situation – he _had_ kissed girls before, or rather tried to kiss them, it usually ending in disaster, but to say the least, his romantic experience and suave charm were limited. Sam was on the verge of congratulating himself at being much better at this than he thought, when memory returned in a singularly unpleasant burst. Oh Jesus. Barbados. Gold. Nathaniel. Matthew. Jack.

It was the latter of these (fortunately, as any of the other options would have been too horrifying for words) who was nestled so cozily against Sam's back, breath stirring his hair, slow and regular and clearly untroubled by any such concerns. The light in the room was like the inside of an oyster, silver-pink and pearlescent, almost beautiful if you could overlook the being-held-captive-and-likely-death part – which at the moment, Sam was almost inclined to do. He was extremely comfortable, the morning air was lovely and cool, and he. . . well. . . he didn't _mind_ having Jack where he was. He was far more agreeable asleep than awake, that was for sure, and a part of Sam had to admit that he had been hoping for something like this to happen when he invited Jack to share the bed with him. That fluttering heat was still in his stomach, and his mouth was dry. Vexing as it was to have everyone making assumptions about them, Sam could not deny that he rather wanted to prove a few of them correct. Not that this made any sense, or was at all wise, or very likely. He just. . . oh, fine. He had a terrible crush on Jack Bellamy of all bloody people, and hopefully it would go away soon, before it caused them any more inconvenience. By which Sam meant, before it caused _him_ any more inconvenience.

Counting in his head, Sam realized that while he could not be entirely sure, having lost track of time during their stupid adventures across the Caribbean, he thought that today might just be his birthday. If so, he was twenty years old, and should not start this decade off by being as much an idiot as in the last one. It was not Jack being a boy that he objected to, though he was surprised as he had thought that he only fancied girls, but him being so. . . Jack. Still, surely the kiss in the _Griffin's_ hold hadn't been the only way to get them out of trouble, and he had saved Sam from flogging twice, not to mention the ocean and Da Souza's chucking, then spent two days in the brig rather than let him reveal his true identity to Matthew. . . of course the bugger would never say so, because why be sensible and straightforward about feelings when you could be emotionally constipated instead, but he couldn't be _completely_ indifferent. . .

Experimentally, shyly, Sam wriggled his hips back against Jack, feeling that pleasurable hot-cold rush from head to toe, pulse quickening in his throat. Jack's arm was still resting on Sam's hip, it wouldn't be too hard to pull himself closer. Of course, Jack would probably then wake up and be extremely confused, but he could also wake up, be stricken to the heart by Sam's ravishing beauty in the dawn's early light, and proceed posthaste to more kissing. It _was_ his birthday. Gold was sure to give him a turd for a present, so –

Just then, as Sam was trying to decide if he had the nerve to make any more daring move, or if this would result in him getting throttled, Jack stirred. He reached down and caught Sam's wrist, sounding confused. "Charlotte, what are you – "

There was a brief, wonderful moment in which Samuel James Jones remained optimistic about a happy birthday or his immediate future in general, and then it crashed and burned in flames. He pulled sharply away from Jack. _"Excuse me?"_

Jack squinted up at him, half awake but completely baffled. His bleary dark eyes slowly resolved on Sam's furious face, at which he assumed an expression of wariness, then dawning consternation and anger. "The fuck?"

" _The fuck_ yourself?!" Sam grabbed a pillow and hit Jack smartly over the head with it. "Sleep with Charlotte, do you?"

Jack flung up an arm to block against further feathery assaults. "The bloody hell does that have to do with anything? What are you doing? What time is it?"

"What does that have to do with anything? I only asked you a dozen times who she was!" Sam tried to hit him again, but Jack succeeded in snatching the pillow away. "If she was your – why didn't you just say so?"

"I did say so!"

"What kind of lunatic refers to his marriage as 'coming to an arrangement'?" Sam wasn't sure on whose behalf he was more furious, his own or Charlotte's. "That's who she is, isn't she? Your wife? How could you do this to her?"

"Do what to her?" Jack exploded, sitting bolt upright, eyes snapping. "What exactly have I done to her? I don't recall I have done anything to her, or anything I'd have to answer for later! Are you out of your bloody mind? This place rubbing off on you?"

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it. "The kiss," he said, less than certainly. "You – "

"The kiss was to get us out of trouble!" Jack looked utterly incredulous. "If I'd known it would result in – whatever you seem to have concluded from it – I'd have taken care to spell that out more clearly! Don't tell me you've been, what, pining this whole time?"

"I have not!" Sam shouted. "Don't flatter yourself, you stupid, dense, selfish hat for an especially spectacular arse! But why would it have been so hard to just tell me?"

"It's not your business." Jack's eyes were now ablaze. "Fuck off."

"Not my business? So just a polite _Charlotte's my wife, actually_ was completely out of the question, was it? I don't _believe_ you!"

"Charlotte is my wife, yes. There. Satisfied?"

"You're a – " Sam struggled to think of an insult bad enough. "You're a complete two-timing git is what you are. No surprise, since you are a _spy –_ really good at lying to people, aren't you?"

"You knew I was a spy from the start, I don't see why that's such a revelation – "

"Yeah," Sam spat. "Yeah, actually, it was. You know, I thought we were starting to be – well, something. Not friends, but not enemies either. Looking out for each other. I saved your life last night, does that just – "

"I didn't ask you to do that." Jack threw aside the covers and got up, striding furiously to his clothes. "Besides, I seem to recall that I've saved yours more than once, so I'll consider that a partial down payment for what you owe me."

Sam stared at him, blood thundering in his ears, possessed of the unholy desire to get out of bed, seize Jack by the neck, and bang his head against the wall until his brain fell out. Though that would be a fruitless endeavor, as he did not appear to have one. "So what you said about not letting the Navy wantonly beat me, about your father, was that just a giant steaming – "

" _Don't you dare talk about my father!"_ Jack whirled on him, drawing the air in around him like the breath before thunder and lightning and all hell breaking loose, and Sam shrank against the headboard, genuinely terrified. He had seen enough of Jack's rage to be quite sure that he wanted to see no more, especially at close range. "Don't act as if you know anything about me! Shut up for once in your godforsaken life! Shut up!"

With that, Jack stomped to the door, almost wrenched it off its hinges, and bowled through it like a tempest, leaving Sam shaking on the bed. He felt stunned, cold as ice, unable to believe that he had been contemplating trying for something intimate just a few short minutes earlier, aglow in the hope for one small nice thing for his birthday before the shitstorm started. More than that, he felt massively, unbearably, unbelievably, heart-wrenchingly stupid. Of course he'd read it entirely, mortifyingly wrong, gotten carried away, seen something where nothing existed. Of course Jack _Bellamy_ hated him. Any pretense of anything else was a distraction from the one truth at the core of his entire life, and Sam decided that if he got through this alive, he was going to become a monk. Preferably one of those who venerated the Buddha, who lived in remote, cloud-shrouded, cliffside monasteries in China. Hopefully that was far away enough.

At last, slowly, Sam got to his feet. If there was anything worse than getting your heart broken on your birthday, it was the prospect of then going to have a nice breakfast with your family's mortal enemy, who would probably be wetting himself with glee at this development. But he was too hungry to stay shut up here forever. Maybe he could steal something from the kitchen and be left alone to nurse his wounds in peace. That, however, seemed unlikely, and all Sam could think of for a bright side was that now nobody could do unpleasant things to him in a bid to make Jack talk. _Though if they want to punch him a few times anyway, I can't say I'd mind._

He dragged on his clothes, pulled a face in the looking glass, and slogged downstairs – thus to be met in the front foyer by Nathaniel, who blinked several times at his all-too-evident state of advanced disgruntlement. "Oy. What happened? First Jack comes storming through here like a hurricane, and now you – "

"Never mind," Sam said morosely. "You were right about him. He's a raging case of cock rot."

To Nathaniel's everlasting credit, he and Sam were good enough friends that he forwent the vastly tempting impulse to press for details of the last several weeks, and instead began to roundly blaspheme Jack on Sam's behalf. He stopped long enough to note that there was something to eat in the drawing room, as evidently Gold did not want his prisoners starving just yet, and they sat down at the table, poured tea, peeled eggs, and spread cream and jam liberally on their crumpets. Sam's mood improved somewhat as they ate, as Nathaniel finished slandering Jack and moved on to telling him about Havana. He hadn't been there long, as Gold's agent had whisked him off upon putting the pieces together, but a good fortnight or so, and it did not seem as if he had suffered unduly. Güemes had treated him as an honored (if strictly observed) guest, and Nathaniel had even gotten to go to a ball, where he made the acquaintance of several fetching Spanish señoritas who had been admiring his red hair. "Always knew being a ginger had to be good for _something_ ," he remarked, stuffing a whole blackcurrant scone into his mouth and spraying crumbs. "Not a half bad adventure for us after all, eh?"

Sam smiled rather weakly. He was glad that Nathaniel had recovered a sense of derring-do about the whole thing, but the fact remained that this adventure was far from over, and somehow he did not think that Gold was going to be handing out dance invitations. It was true that the Spanish had no more leverage to force him to find Skeleton Island, as he had escaped _(ha)_ from Da Souza and Güemes no longer had Nathaniel as a hostage, but if anything, they would be even angrier at being duped and played for fools. Sam was dead on sight if they caught him, and so, for that matter, was his family. He had bluffed and big-talked his way into this entire madcap adventure to protect them, and all it had gotten any of them was here. Even if they did manage to escape, he would be looking over his shoulder for the Spaniards for God knew how long, to the point that it almost seemed more sensible just to go back to Cuba and admit straight up that he had failed. That way, if they were going to kill him, at least they would get it over with.

"Sam?" Nathaniel said. "Hey, Sam?"

Sam jumped. "What? Sorry, I'm listening."

Nathaniel glanced around shiftily, as if someone might be eavesdropping from behind a bookcase, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. "So last night, what Gold said about your family – do you think they'll come?"

"I don't know." Sam looked down at his own scone and suddenly discovered that he had no more appetite. "I hope they don't, I'm sure he has some terrible surprise planned if they do. They might, if they heard in time, but – I don't know."

"But if they do. . ." Nathaniel seemed to think that this would be the silver bullet for their present difficulties. "Your family are _pirates!_ They can fight anyone! They beat Gold the last time, I'm sure they can do it again. Your granddad's Captain Flint, your dad's Captain Hook, they could probably raise an entire army if the word went out that Lord Robert Gold had returned. I mean, I know it's a trap too, but if they do come – "

"They'll die!" Sam hadn't expected Jack to care much, but he thought this might matter more to Nathaniel. "One of them, several of them, more – I can't be responsible for that! Yes, we _might_ get out of here, but I would be risking my entire family against a power-mad prick who hates their guts, and I – no. We have to find another way. I said I'd get us home, remember? I will, I'll figure it out. But we can't just sit on our arses and wait for the cavalry to come. Otherwise, we're already boned."

Nathaniel blinked. "But how else are we supposed to – "

"I'm going to try something." Sam gulped the last of his cold tea. "Just give me a chance."

He was afraid that Matthew would have already set out again to chase down Da Souza, or that Gold had dispatched him on skullduggerous business elsewhere on the island, but after a brief search, he discovered the captain sitting on the veranda that overlooked Bridgetown harbor, perusing a newspaper and sipping a cup of tea. He glanced up as Sam stepped outside, and started to get to his feet, then realized who it was and stopped. "Mr. Jones," he said, coolly polite. "This is considerably unexpected. You _are_ Mr. Jones, aren't you? Not your. . . friend?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "And he's not my friend."

"I had the impression otherwise."

"So did I. Guess we're both wrong, then." Sam moved to sit across from Matthew, affecting a casual indifference. He was scared of the bloke, but at least he did not have any more brawny underlings and riding crops at hand, and they weren't going to get anywhere if he didn't try. "Anyway, can we talk?"

"Talk?" Matthew set aside the newspaper and stared at Sam, as if to be sure he knew what was going on here. "Did you not have enough of my company on the _Griffin,_ then?"

"Plenty," Sam said. "But that's why I'm here. The only way me and Nathaniel are likely to get out of this is if you help us. So what would it take to make it happen?"

From the expression on Matthew's face, he either thought that Sam had already had too much to drink at nine o'clock in the morning, or this was some sort of elaborate trick on Gold's part to test his loyalty. "I beg your – Mr. Jones, are you entirely clear on how the notion of captivity even _works?"_

"Of course I am, you plank." Sam reminded himself that impatience or impertinence was not going to help, and belatedly modified his tone. "I mean, Captain Rogers, I don't hold a grudge for the beating on the ship, honest. You were doing what you thought you had to. But Gold – well, I know you work for him, and I'm sure he's been very careful to give you choice assignments, treat you like a son, cultivate your affection, recognize your efforts. All that. But the man's barking mad, and more than that, he's evil. You're smart. You must know that. Maybe you don't mind if he kills me and Nathaniel and my family and anyone else, and takes over the world or whatever he's planning, but maybe you do. You know he wasn't working for England before, right? Him and his Star Chamber – that wasn't because he was intending to be best mates with Westminster when he was done. If you're hunting traitors, how about you start with him?"

Matthew lifted his teacup, stared at it as if he had suddenly forgotten what he was doing, and put it back down. "Are you actually asking me to risk my neck, my ship, my men, my command, my reputation, and my livelihood to help a traitor's son – regardless of any insistence on Gold's supposed transgression, your father's is not up for debate – and his sidekick go free? Not even counting your violent not-friend, Mr. Bellamy?"

"Well, if you put it like that," Sam said feebly. "Frankly, you can have Jack, and you don't need to worry about belting me to make him talk. Turns out he really does hate me."

Matthew raised one eyebrow. "Now that," he said, "I find quite unbelievable. Though there are strategies to acquire his intelligence that do not involve bodily harm to you, it is true. To name merely one, your willing cooperation at the present moment. What, for example, could you tell me about Mr. Bellamy's previous missions or movements? His contacts in New Spain, any friends or family, the like?"

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it. As far as he could tell, Charlotte was already saddled with quite enough travail by having Jack for a husband, and he was certainly not about to be responsible for selling her out. "Why do you think I'd know?"

"I daresay you have heard the Latin phrase _quid pro quo?_ If you are interested in enlisting my help to spirit yourself and Mr. Hunt to safety, you doubtless have some way to make it worth my while. A favor of the magnitude you are asking would demand equally extraordinary payment. If you could break a Spanish spy ring for me, well then, perhaps we could see our way to an arrangement. Besides, you have just assured me that neither you nor Mr. Bellamy hold any actual regard for one another. If so, surely it's no trouble to offer some proof?"

"So. . . you _would_ disobey Gold?" Sam pressed, perhaps rather too daringly. "If we could find the right offer, you'd take us?"

"I am a captain of the Royal Navy," Matthew Rogers said proudly. "Lord Robert has been kind enough to patronize me generously, but he cannot legally compel my obedience within the bounds of his current administrative post. However, as my willingness to do so is personal rather than political, I do not wish to betray his regard, and unlawfully removing a prisoner of your importance would reflect very poorly on me with the Admiralty. Besides, Lord Robert wishes to settle matters with you and your family especially."

"As I said, because he's mental!" Sam wasn't sure if he was getting anywhere or not, but he was suspecting the latter. This had been a slim wager to start with, but somehow he'd convinced himself there was more of a shot. "And he's not loyal to England! So are you a traitor too? Might as well join the club!"

Matthew rose half to his feet, his teacup falling and smashing with a tinkle of china. This was alarming, but as Sam had already thought he'd be hit once that morning, less than it otherwise would have been. "I am _not,"_ the captain said, eyes like ice, "a traitor, and I would advise you not to repeat that opinion again if you wish to have any hope of a compact. So – "

"Aye? Well, I'm not a traitor either. I'm an English soldier, I wasn't lying. The most I've ever broken the law is the time I stole an apple from the neighbor's orchard. My parents did some bad stuff in their day, sure, but they haven't years. And my friend, Nathaniel, he doesn't have a scheming bone in his body, as you probably realized at our little audience last night. I know Gold's put it in your head that we're terrible people who want to do terrible things, but we're not. We're kids. Kill us if you want, but don't call it valor or heroism."

Despite himself, Matthew did not quite have a rebuttal for that. He started to say something, then stopped. Finally he said, "Why did you lie about who you were, if you had nothing to – "

"Why do you think? The instant you copped that one of us was Captain Hook's son, you beat us up and rushed us here for Gold to do his nonsense! Do you think I just stroll up to Royal Navy captains, 'oh and hello there, mate, my dad's a famous ex-pirate you all really hate?' I know you think I'm completely stupid, but I'm not _that_ stupid! Oh, and I'm pretty sure I know who _your_ dad is. So if we're talking about the sins of our parents – "

"Oh?" Matthew said, hands curling into fists on his knees, spots of color burning in his otherwise dead-white cheeks. "Do you?"

"Yeah. Woodes Rogers, isn't it? You're his son. And your mum's name is Eleanor Guthrie. So if I'm a traitor because of my dad, you're one because of her. Go on, hit me, but then tell me that I'm wrong. Go on!"

For a moment, Sam thought Matthew actually would, but after an extremely fraught silence, he blew out a breath and wrestled himself under control. "It's frankly miraculous that nobody has murdered you yet."

"So I've heard," Sam said. "Never knew it was a murderable offense to speak the truth, but people keep surprising me. Anyway, I can see I'm wasting my time. I'll take the paper if you're done with it. Good day, _Captain."_

With that, he whisked the paper directly out of Matthew's hands, tucked it under his arm, and probably did a fairly good impression of Jack stomping off in a huff. This was shaping up to be the worst birthday ever, and that included when he turned ten and nearly drowned in a tidepool, then spent the next fortnight sick as a dog with the grippe – at this rate, he either would not survive thirty, or wish he hadn't. Twenty most likely still had some monumentally shit-flavored cherry to place on top, so he should be braced for that before the day was out, but he finally sat down in a corner of the walled garden and hoped the world could lay off for a damn second. He had nothing better to do, so he opened the paper and began to skim listlessly through it. Since Matthew bloody Rogers was just as much a dead end as feared, that put them back at –

Sam wasn't sure why the small notice caught his eye, as it was outwardly indistinguishable from the others seeking information on family members who had emigrated, indentured, or otherwise been separated. But as he stared at it – _The Wife & Parents-in-Law of Mr Barth. JONES, of the Province of Georgia, urgently appeal for word of his Whereabouts, Correspondence to Mr B FRANKLIN the printer, Philadelphia, REWARD – _he felt an icy knot twist around his heart. That was Dad, it had to be. And Mum, Grandpa, and Granny were "urgently" looking for him? Using "Bartholomew," his middle name, rather than the unusual "Killian" – they were trying to avoid causing too much of a stir or drawing too much notice, but why?

It was _possible_ , Sam supposed, that there was another Bartholomew Jones of Georgia, and he wasn't sure why they wanted word sent to Philadelphia instead of Savannah or even Boston, as he thought his half-brother Henry still lived there. But there was the other large fact that Mr. B Franklin the printer was, of course, Nathaniel's uncle. Added together, it veered a little too far out of the realm of allowable coincidence for comfort. Sam checked the date on the paper; it was a little over a fortnight ago, must have left the mainland and come down here on Gold's weekly packet boat from the Colonies, or however else he got his news. _What the hell did they do to Dad? Did Gold's cretins get to him already? But then why go to the bother of holding me?_

Sam sat for a moment, then carefully tore out the notice – either way, he did not want Rogers or Gold seeing it, if they hadn't already – and folded it into his pocket. Then he ran both hands through his hair, repressing the urge to scream – of course he'd find out that Dad was missing and possibly dead today, why not? That threw a very serious kink into any idea of waiting for his family to get here and save them, not that he had wanted that anyway, but it reinforced that nobody was coming to help, they had to do this alone. Then he got up, intending to locate Nathaniel and ask if he could think of anything that could have sent Mum and the others off to eccentric Uncle Benjamin. Not that either of them could do anything about it from here, but –

Sam had made it back into the house, and gone upstairs, when he heard the clattering of iron-rimmed wheels outside. He peered out the window just in time to see a carriage tearing up the drive at great speed, the horses being switched by one considerably alarmed-looking footman while the other tried to balance on the backboard and aim a pistol in the direction of some vanished miscreant. The carriage rattled to a halt under the portico, someone was ushered out in a state of considerable dishevelment, and the front door banged open and shut. A moment later, someone bellowed from below, "JONES!"

Sam cringed. He had no idea what he was about to be blamed for, did not foresee it going well in any event, and wondered if he could pretend to have already escaped or something of the like, but that would get him in even more trouble, and it was probably better to know. He remained silently fuming for a moment longer, then turned about and marched downstairs as icily as possible, only to be surprised by Nathaniel hurrying out of the back corridor. "What are you doing? Sounds like Gold's bloody pissed, you shouldn't – "

Nathaniel gave him a very funny look, as if asking if Sam really thought he was going to let him walk in there alone. They squared their shoulders, then proceeded into the room, where Robert Gold, waistcoat and jacket torn, hair hanging in his eyes, and blood running down his face from a cut on his forehead, stopped pacing and whirled on them. "I don't recall asking for _you,_ Mr. Hunt?"

"You deal with Sam, you deal with me." Nathaniel folded his arms. "Then again, I don't expect you to know what it's like to have an actual friend that you're not paying."

Gold looked briefly stunned, and Sam fought the impulse to hold up his hand for Nathaniel to slap. Then the ex-governor's face twisted in a nasty smile. "Well. Perhaps either of you feel like answering for your other _friend's_ actions?"

"Oh?" Sam eyed Gold's flustered and battered state, and despite his very considerable irritation with Jack, could not help but admire what was apparently his handiwork. "No, I don't feel like it at all, actually."

Gold's footman cleared his throat. "As Lord Robert was returning to the house just now, someone jumped from the shrubbery onto the roof of the moving carriage, nearly gained access to Lord Robert's person, and was only chased off by force. He was wearing a black cloth over his head and face, but Lord Robert believes, quite logically, that it was your friend, Mr. Bellamy. Did he disclose any plans of trying to murder His Excellency to you?"

"No," Sam said. "Plenty of other rubbish, but I don't recall he mentioned Gold at all."

"What _rubbish?"_

Despite himself, Sam laughed. "Believe me, you don't want to know. And yes, I'm sure Jack is the one who tried to kill you, I'm not even going to waste time pretending I'm not. But I don't know anything. We had a fight this morning, he stormed out. No idea."

"Yeah," Nathaniel said, nodding vigorously. "That's what happened."

"Trouble in paradise?" Happily, Gold could not be nearly as smug as he otherwise would have been, given that he was the one upon whom Jack had vented his frustration. "So surely you won't mind if I send out my household guard with orders to capture him dead or alive?"

Sam's stomach lurched. He managed, however, to ignore it. "Since when do you care what I mind? What do you expect me to do, sob and beg you not to? I obviously can't stop you. Besides, Jack hates me anyway, it's not like – "

"Oh." Gold was still getting his breath back, but an ugly light had appeared in his eyes, avid and hungry. "I think we'll see about that."

* * *

To every side, the world was fire, burning and dancing and devouring, reflecting on the dark ocean, spitting into the sky. Killian's ears were ringing like a church bell, he was not entirely sure which way was up, and only slowly pieced together that he was barely hanging onto the hull of the _Nautilus,_ just a few feet from the water, where he had been blown off the deck by a shot directly overhead. He nearly lost his precarious grip as the junk's dragon cannons once more returned fire on her adversary, but even the pressing fact that he needed to get back on board right now could not cut through the shrieking terror in his head. How – _how_ was this possible – the man was dead, had been dead for almost twenty-five years. Liam had killed him – surely that too could not be a lie, it could not. How could Henry Jennings be here, still hunting them, pursuing like a vengeful demon from the deepest hell, and –

Killian tried to claw his way up the side of the ship, striking his hook at the black-varnished boards with a spray of splinters, but the finish was too sleek for it to bite deeply. "JENNINGS!" he bawled, though he was sure they couldn't hear hm over the uproar, and only Regina would have any idea what he meant. "IT'S JENNINGS!"

He threw a wild glace over his shoulder at the other ship, but the dread figure at the helm had vanished. For a moment, Killian seriously entertained the idea that Jennings could change shape into a bat or a cloud of smoke or some other sorcerous guise, and that was how he had cheated death the first time, might be how he was about to swoop down on them now. Killian made a desperate grab for the shroud just above him as the _Nautilus_ splashed heavily down into a wave, covered his head as another blast went off at close range, and saw that the figurehead of the attacking ship was a faerie queen carved in some dark stone, with a spiked crown and pointed wings, a cruel smirk on her otherwise beautiful face. Just as he was debating if she was more likely called _Faerie Queen, Black Fairy,_ or _Titania,_ the long nines lit up like the blast of a fallen star, sky and sea and gravity altogether ceased to function in their accustomed manner, and the next moment, he was engulfed in the abyss.

Killian struggled violently, boot tangled in a heavy net that had fallen into the water after him, and was dragging him down like a cannonball. He writhed and kicked, trying to saw it loose with his hook, but only succeeded in getting himself further trussed and twisted. He was horribly aware of his air running out, lungs burning, choking cold blackness stealing into his mouth and nose, and the surface was only a dim, fading ghost of firelight too many fathoms above to reach. This was not how he had planned or wanted to die, but no man was allowed to choose the hour or the manner – _Emma, bloody hell, love, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm –_

And then, a swift-moving black shape appeared just above him, stroking down with fast and frantic purpose. It reached Killian, tore at the tangles of hemp, jerked his foot free, and clamped an arm like an iron hoop around his chest, hauling him toward the surface. The urge to breathe was almost overwhelming, but Killian held it, sparks popping in his eyes, until their heads crested with a splash and a sting of cold, delicious, wonderful, miraculous air. The _Nautilus_ and the _Titania_ (as he decided it was most likely called) were still exchanging fire above them, but it seemed oddly muffled and far away, or perhaps his ear drums had been sufficiently blown out by the barrage and then the plunge that he was furthermore deaf. He thought his rescuer was saying something, in fact, but as it felt as if thick, soaking cotton wool had been stuffed into his head, it just sounded like the distant lap of waves or sigh of wind. They were behind him, holding him up, so he couldn't see their face, not that his eyes were working any better. "Jennings," he managed, forcing his misbehaving tongue around the word. "Jennings is here!"

He thought the arm around his chest tightened almost unbearably, but then they started to kick clumsily toward the _Nautilus._ Someone had spotted them from the deck, a rope came flying over the side, and they caught hold of it, hauled clear of the water and bumped up over the railing, where they did a somersault in front of several intrigued members of Nemo's crew and then lay flat, wheezing and coughing.

Only then, finally, as hearing returned in at least one ear, did Killian look over at his savor – and then felt punched again, for a very different reason. It had been over twenty years, and that seemed both merely a blink and an unfathomable span, the picture just the same as it always had been, but altered, greyed, worn, mortal. All the words he had prepared and bottled up for such an occasion simply fled on the spot, leaving nothing but shock.

Neither of them said anything for the world's longest moment. Then there was a sound that was as much a scream as Regina Jones née Mills could ever make, and she hurtled past the men, to her knees, and threw herself into her husband's arms.

Liam held her without saying a word, chin resting on her hair, as Regina pulled back to stare at him in disbelief, clutched his face in her hands, and kissed him thoroughly, once and then again. "How – " she began croakily. "How are you – "

"We spotted you. Lady Fiona ordered us to – " Liam seemed completely unable to even begin an explanation. "She wanted to remove a rival, someone else in the same place at the same time – we didn't, I didn't know it was – then K. . ." He seemed even more unable to say his brother's name. "He was blown into the water, I saw it by the gun flash, I knew it was my only chance. I ran like bloody hell, managed to dive overboard while everyone was distracted, and. . ."

Liam trailed off, as he and Killian continued to stare at each other. The _Nautilus_ was gaining speed, the _Titania_ falling behind, the night almost peaceful again except for the lingering whiff of smoke and this literally midnight-hour restoration of his brother to him, his _brother,_ who had summoned the wherewithal, as ever, to escape his own captors when he saw Killian in danger, jumped into the dark ocean in the middle of a pitched gun battle on the instinctive need to rescue him. Killian wished he could think of something to say. His other ear popped painfully, restoring a rush of too-loud noise. Finally he managed, "What about Jennings?"

Liam went tense from head to heel. _"What?"_

"Jennings. I saw him on the deck of your ship, by the helm, he – "

Liam kept staring at him, horrified but completely lost, until it struck Killian what must have happened. It was Liam, however, who quietly, tonelessly put it into words. "You thought I was Jennings."

"I – must have. In the confusion. The darkness and the fire and. . ." Killian trailed off, unable to keep looking at his brother's face, feeling all of fourteen years old again. "Your hair is lighter now, well, it's silver, so. . . I suppose I thought it was blonde, and well. . . I'm bloody relieved it's not, believe me. I know he's dead. But I. . . forgot, somehow."

"I'm not surprised," Regina said harshly, her hands tightening on Liam's shoulders. "To judge from everything you've been running off at the mouth about, you've forgotten any difference between them."

Liam grimaced terribly, running both hands through his wet curls. "Killian, I owe you an explanation."

" _You_ owe _him_ an explanation?" At last, Regina's fury, restrained while Liam was in danger, seemed to break free now that he was safely restored to her side. _"You owe him an explanation?_ No, Liam. No. He owes you one! Should start talking right now and carry through until morning, if he had any scrap of shame or gratitude! But we'll save it, because I don't know what that horrible Murray bitch has been doing to you, and I want to take a look. Nemo, is there a larger cabin we can use?"

"Of course." Nemo looked slightly ruffled and sooty from the recent engagement, but otherwise undamaged, and Killian started; he hadn't heard the captain come up. Nemo observed their unexpected extra passenger with a very odd expression, then turned to Killian. "This would in fact be your brother, then? The one you were speaking of earlier?"

"I. . .yes. That's. . . that's Liam." Killian waved his hand weakly. "He, ah, he said that Lady Fiona ordered them to attack us. That was her ship, evidently. She spotted someone potentially in her way and wanted them blown to bits. So is she – " He turned back to Liam. "Is she going to Skeleton Island, then? Is anyone else with her?"

"As I. . ." Liam hesitated. "As I understood it, yes, she was going to Skeleton Island. She has Billy Bones with her. We met in Bristol after she kidnapped me from Paris – anyway. She was going to Barbados first. I didn't know why."

"Barbados?" Killian felt unsure whether to be pleased that he had guessed correctly, or sicker than ever. "I know why. Her brother's there."

"Broth – " Liam's face went still. "Bloody hell. I asked Bones who started this, and he said I'd appreciate it. Jesus. It's him, isn't it? Robert Gold's her brother. He's alive."

"Aye." Killian glanced up at him, feeling almost as if the years had melted away, and it was just him and Liam about to confront Gold in Antigua. "We can follow her, we can stop both of them. Are you with me?"

"To the end." Liam's voice wavered, ever so slightly. "That's always been so. It always will be."

They kept staring at each other – then finally reached out, half expecting the other to vanish beneath their fingers, and clutched on, clawing into each other's arms for the first time in over twenty years. They all but banged heads, grasping fistfuls of the other's still-dripping clothes, shaking without a word, holding on. Liam kissed the side of Killian's head, and Killian pressed his face into Liam's neck, neither of them moving or stirring or speaking or breathing, for some interminably long time that nonetheless felt far too short. Then, very slowly, they let go, hands still catching, neither of them particularly steady, eyes too bright. Liam coughed and painfully stood up. "I could do with some dry clothes and about a bloody week of sleep."

"I'll take care of you," Regina said, starting to move forward. "Come on."

"I – no." Killian cleared his throat. "I know you want to check him over, but – Regina, I think I should. Be the one to take care of him, a bit."

Regina looked extremely surprised, started to say something, then stopped. "All right," she said. "For a bit."

Killian and Liam made their way into Killian's cabin, and shut the door. They let out a gasping, half-sobbing laugh, turned toward each other, and then said in unison, "Christ, you look old."

"No denying that." Liam sat down heavily on the bed. "Though it suits you better than me. Jesus. I can't believe it's you."

"I can't either." Killian lifted his hand, ran it down Liam's unshaven cheek. "I've been. . . I've been stupid, Li. As usual. I should have seen you long ago, I should have come back. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Liam said roughly, knuckling at his eyes. "It's all right, you're here now. We can make it to Barbados, we can stop Bones and Lady Fiona and Gold and anyone else. Then we can talk about the – the rest."

"No, Regina's right. We should talk now. Some of it, at least. We've spent a long time not talking, we don't know how much time we'll have. What happened in Bristol? How did you – ?"

Liam looked as if he did not particularly want to broach the subject just now. "It's complicated."

"I'm an adult, remember? Grown man. I can handle the truth. You don't need to shield me from it. If you're going to go back to doing that – "

"I. . ." Liam drew a slow breath. "I. . . don't need to ask if you remember Hawkins?"

Killian winced. "Of course I do."

"Well, I met his wid – his wife, and his son, Jim. He reminded me of – of you, almost."

"You should say his widow, Li. She is his widow, I widowed her. I was just thinking about it. It was for Sam, I had to save Sam. But there's no avoiding that truth. It was my crime, I'll have to answer for it one day, but – Liam?"

Liam closed his eyes. Finally he said, "Jim and I were blamed for burning down the Benbow. We didn't, but – "

"The Benbow Inn? That old place?" Killian almost smiled in fond memory, before registering the rest. "What? It _burned?"_

"Aye. I think Lady Fiona did it, then tricked Sarah to lie for her somehow. She's bloody dangerous, we have to be careful. But Jim and I were imprisoned, she came to gloat, and – I don't know for sure how much she knew, but she threatened to tell him, and I. . ."

"You what?" Killian said sharply. "You what?"

Liam opened his eyes and looked at him hollowly. "I told Jim that I killed his father."

"You. . . _what?"_

"Lady Fiona was going to tell him it was you, I couldn't – "

"You _couldn't?_ You just said you couldn't be sure how much she knew, she could have been about to say bloody anything! I wasn't even there, but you thought I'd crumble in absentia? Still couldn't shoulder the cost of my actions? As ever, had to heroically dive in and pull me out? Christ, Liam! Why the fuck, why the _fuck,_ do you have to keep doing this?"

"Killian, I have to protect you, I – "

"No. No, you don't. You haven't had to protect me for years and years, and you're the only one you're hurting by it. You're certainly not helping me, or yourself! I love you, of course I love you, but I can't go back to this. Neither can you. Thank you for telling me, rather than leaving me to find out some other way, but I bloody wish you hadn't done that. Now when Jim Hawkins invariably finds out the truth, as he deserves to, it can blow up even more badly! _Why?"_

"I just. . ." Liam reached for him again, but Killian pulled away. "I wanted. . ."

"Aye?" Killian's voice cracked. "Well, I don't. I don't want it, Liam. And if that's what you'll always do, no matter what, then I don't want you. Not until you can learn how to stop."

Liam recoiled back as if he had been slapped. _Are you with me?_ Killian had asked, and _To the end,_ Liam had answered, and yet, that already seemed to echo as a broken promise, an empty lie. Both of them knew that asking Liam to stop protecting Killian felt tantamount to asking him to stop loving him, to stand aside from everything they had ever fought for – and yet, much as it broke his own heart to do it, Killian could not take back what he had said. Needed Liam to find a new way of loving him, of trusting that their bond was still deep enough, and could not put off that reckoning. It was better than living in yet another lie, no matter how lulling.

They remained frozen, neither saying another word. Killian felt as if he should soften his ultimatum somehow, but he did not want to make it anything less than perfectly clear that this could not go on. He knew that if he asked this of his brother, he had to ask it of himself, that he could not demand immediate reform from Liam and then return to plans of revenge against Gold – that the two of them both had to change, however difficult. Perhaps he should explain that too, that he was not trying to be a hypocrite, that the task was shared. But the words remained lost.

There was one more moment in which, perhaps, if they had known each other better, or even at all, for the last twenty-five years, they would have been able to speak. But they had not, and so Liam nodded once, and got to his feet. Crossed the cabin, let himself out, and shut the door.


	16. XVI

From the mouth of the harbor, Nassau looked both as if no time had passed at all since their long-ago departure, and a land too strange for any hope of recognizance. Emma had at least last seen it when she and Killian were leaving after the battle, but Flint and Miranda had not seen it since Flint's duel against Blackbeard for command of the fleet and Miranda's departure to the Maroons' island. It had been their home for ten years, but its memories were far from unqualifiedly pleasant, and both of them were white-knuckling the railing as the ship started the approach. The closer they got to New Providence, the more abstracted they had become, until Emma thought she could set off a firework in front of them and not get more than a twitch. Still, it was bordering on surreal for her as well: pirate ships replaced by merchant galleys rocking sedately at anchor, the place looking altogether more smartly groomed and respectable than she had ever seen it, and – causing Flint to growl out loud – the Union Jack flapping proudly over the city. "Look at that," he said furiously. "Woodes fucking Rogers still won in the end, didn't he? Someone should tear that rag down and remind them what we – "

"James,  _no."_ Miranda sounded almost on the verge of tears, enough to make Flint and Emma look concernedly at her. "I can't say I appreciate the sight much more than you, but promise me,  _promise me,_ you will remember who we are here to find, and to fight. This is dangerous enough. Don't toss tinder on the blaze."

Flint made a noise in his throat that clearly said as far as he was concerned, any fanning which might accidentally occur was not, of course, his fault. It had been a thankfully quick and uncomplicated voyage from Philadelphia, but now they had to reckon with the dread prospect of actually facing their past, and nothing more to put it off. The first order of business was to get ashore, find Charlie, and locate suitable lodging for Violet and the children, who were already somewhat unimpressed at the prospect of being uprooted once more from Philadelphia, where they had only just arrived, and shuffled off to Nassau for what seemed likely to be the winter at least. But as it was better than remaining behind alone and being exposed to any potential future assassins, they had agreed, and Richard was already of the conviction that it would be a fabulous adventure to see the pirates' old hideout for himself. Utterly oblivious to the adults' discomfort, he swung on Emma's hand. "We're almost there then, Grandma?"

"Yes, kid. Almost." Emma smiled down at him; he looked very much as Henry had at eight. Or at least as she assumed he had, as she hadn't seen him between the ages of five and eleven, had been here pirating, sending the money to him and Charlie in Virginia. God, this was strange. She didn't have quite as visceral a reaction as Flint to seeing the Union Jack, but it rubbed her the wrong way nevertheless, in a way she had not expected. Nassau  _was_ different now, and if they had changed it, how they had changed it, and what they were about to face as a result, remained an unsettling, elusive mystery.

They reached the quays soon after, and the hands threw out ropes to tie up. David was of course the owner of the vastly profitable interests on the island that Charlie managed for him, and swiftly persuaded the otherwise extremely zealous port master that the berthing tariffs could be skipped. Flint watched with an expression somewhere between admiration and outrage, as time was it was him who would play by his own rules here, be the captain greeted in respect and wariness. As the port master strode off to tax some other unfortunate, wig brimming with self-righteousness, Flint put a hand to the pistol in his jacket and muttered, "I could still shoot him from here."

One look from Miranda was enough to disabuse him of that notion, and once everyone had collected their things, they traipsed down the gangplank, Flint offering a polite hand to his wife, his daughter, his granddaughter-in-law, and Charlotte in turn. While he remained cautious of her presence, it was clear that she had impressed him, and she and Miranda had had a few quiet conversations on the trip down that had settled, more or less, Flint's suspicion of her sincerity. Emma was in fact quite curious what exactly Charlotte had said to Miranda to convince them, but at least it was preferable to Flint glaring and breathing down her neck at every turn. Once Henry, bringing up the rear of the party of ten – seven adults and three children – had reached the street with the rest, he said, "I'll go find Uncle Charlie, it will be good to see him again. Violet, Richard, Lucy, and Cecilia can come with me, I'll get them settled, and the rest of you can ask a few questions. And I do mean questions, Grandpa."

Flint grunted noncommittally, and turned to Miranda. "You should go with them."

"I'm not the one with a crack in my skull," Miranda pointed out. "If we're stepping aside on grounds of infirmity, surely that includes you?"

"What?" Flint was startled. "No, I can't. But – "

Miranda gave him another look, this one the quiet, shrewd brown gaze that meant while she appreciated his concern for her safety, she knew that he was trying to send her away so he would have more scope to approach this reunion however he wanted, and she was not going to turn a blind eye, whether to protecting him from Nassau or protecting Nassau from him. Her deep-grained anger at him for nearly getting himself killed like an idiot remained apparent, especially as Flint seemed set to follow it up by restarting the entire war. There was an awkward pause as they silently challenged each other, two formidably strong-willed and stubborn people who had been married for a very long time, and finally Miranda, with a significant look at Emma and Charlotte clearly deputizing them in her place, said, "Very well, I'll go with Henry and the others. I  _am_ quite fatigued. I'll see you tonight, with no more damage."

"No more," Flint agreed, and bent to kiss her cheek quickly; Miranda let him, though with a slight stiffness to warn him that he had not permanently won the argument. Then she set off with Henry, Violet, and the children, and Flint, Emma, Charlotte, and David continued up the street to the main square. At least nobody was running to shout that the terrible Captain Flint had returned, though perhaps Flint almost wanted them to, to prove that the potency of his legend remained intact. He kept glancing around as if expecting one of their old associates to pop up like a toadstool after a hard rain, to the point that Emma felt sure he would never have agreed to this if there was any chance Silver was still present. Of course, it was not necessarily any better that Silver had attached himself to Thomas and Geneva, but at least it precluded the possibility of a face-to-face meeting – for the moment. Once again, the urge to press for details on Skeleton Island arose, what Silver could have possibly done or said to destroy their entire relationship in an instant, how they could remain in such wariness and damage over each other even now, but Flint would have become more tight-lipped than ever. This  _was_ utterly bizarre.

David cleared his throat, startling both of them. "We could find some of my warehouses," he suggested. "Though the others are likely at Charlie's office already, so – "

"No," Flint said. "Max is still here, isn't she?"

David blinked. "Max? Yes, she's the factor of the island, she works with Madi Scott. Were you friends?"

Flint barked a laugh. "I'd say that was a stretch. But we knew each other, at least, and I'd rather talk to one of the old crowd than any of these new stuffed-shirt English pricks. Besides, she's the one who can start shaking cobwebs to see what spiders fall out. Come on."

It took some searching, but they finally found Max's place of residence, were showed in, and told to wait while the maidservant went to fetch her. Max had indirectly helped Emma rescue Killian when he was being tortured by Rogers and Jennings, and they'd never had any personal animus – they'd done business of a sort when Emma worked with Eleanor, and several members of the  _Blackbird's_ crew had been regular customers at Max's brothel. As well, Max and Charlie had been business partners for years, so there had to be at least the chance for a somewhat favorable reception. But she had always been independent, enigmatic, and hard-nosed, caring deeply for her friends but not easily forgiving of slights, nor unduly moved by pity or sympathy. If they were going to convince her to do something as dangerous as smoke out Robert Gold for them, they would have to earn it.

At last, the door opened, and Max appeared: a striking woman with dark braids streaked in silver, a line or two around her eyes, but otherwise looking much as she had. They had given their names to the maidservant, so as to provide her some advance warning, but it was clear from the expression on her face that she had not quite believed it. She tilted her chin back and regarded Flint piercingly, glanced at Emma, and then finally said, "So it  _is_ you. I did not expect that either of you would ever return to this place."

"We were not planning to, believe me." Emma smiled awkwardly. "You'll know David Nolan?"

"I will," Max said, coolly polite. "We have done business. Who is this?"

"Charlotte Bell." Charlotte stepped forward. "What shall I call you?"

Max looked at her for a slightly long moment, then smiled in turn. "Only Max. Everyone does. You have not, I think, been to Nassau before?"

"No," Charlotte said. "I'm looking for my husband."

A brief hint of what might have been disappointment flickered in Max's eyes, but was gone almost at once. "And have all of you also come to look for her husband?"

"Er, no," Emma said. "We're actually looking for mine as well."

Max's expression said that in her opinion, if women were to go to the bother of encumbering themselves with husbands, they should at least keep track of them properly. "I met your daughter Geneva, a few months ago. She left here with Madi, and with John Silver. Did you know that?"

"Yes. Unfortunately. But that is one of our lesser problems at the moment. I am sure you remember Robert Gold?"

"I do, yes." Max's kohl-lined gaze remained inscrutable. "Why?"

"Have you heard anything about him being back? In the Caribbean somewhere? We think he's behind some troubling recent events, and we'd like to find him. Apparently the new governor of Charlestown, Lord Gideon Murray, is his son. We've had entanglements with him too."

Max raised an eyebrow, as if impressed by the mischief they had managed to get into in just a span of weeks. "I would have expected that you had learned long ago not to meddle with Charlestown."

"It's complicated." As usual, Emma thought, that was underselling it. "One other question. What do you know about Billy Bones?"

"Only what I told your daughter. That a half-mad sailor by the name of Gunn claimed he was alive, had been in Charlestown recently, and then set sail for England. That, perhaps, is why you decided to risk the trip?"

"Among other reasons, yes, but we didn't hear about him until we were already there. Where is this Gunn? May we speak to him?"

"He is dead. So no, you may not."

Emma sighed. "Billy met with Lord Murray in Charlestown, but Murray wasn't the one to tell him about us in the first place. There was some secondary plot with his adopted mother – well, his aunt, Gold's sister, Lady Fiona Murray. I think Gold told Billy that we were alive, and promised revenge on him – " she tilted her head at Flint, who looked insulted that anyone would want revenge on him – "if Billy cooperated. But Billy decided to double-cross him and sell the information about Skeleton Island to Lady Fiona instead, Gold's principal rival. Billy never forgets anyone who's wronged him, and Gold was a dangerous enemy to all of us. So now Gold's agents are trying to kill us, partly because that was his bargain with Billy and partly because he just wants to. But Billy is really working with Lady Fiona, not Gold, because he wants Gold  _and_ Flint dead. And as complicated as all of this is, it doesn't make sense unless Gold is alive and actively involved. There are too many connections for him not to be. His son, his sister, his old enemies, his unfinished business. So. . ."

Everyone looked unsure whether to be impressed with Emma for putting all of this together, or to ask her to run it through again from the start, more slowly. It took Max a few moments, but she seemed to follow the thread. "And how do the missing husbands factor into all this?"

"Charlotte's husband is named Jack, he. . . has connections among the Spanish. As for mine, Lord Murray kidnapped Killian trying to force us to cooperate. He also wants the Skeleton Island treasure, though in his case it's because he seems to be a Jacobite."

"An impressive tangle," Max said. "It reminds me of the old days, everyone working for their own purposes and motives, in expectation of their own reward. Well. I will make some enquiries. I assume you are suitably lodged?"

"We'll be along to my brother Charlie, yes." Emma was ready to stay in one place for a while after all this traveling, not that she thought it was terribly likely. "Thank you. Is there anything we can do in return?"

"I am no more eager to see Robert Gold returned to power than you," Max said, after a pause. "Nor am I eager to see everything that Madi and I have built over these years be overturned by an act of recklessness – " her eyes lingered pointedly on Flint – "especially from one who feels that his old mastery has been challenged or, as he would see it, usurped. You do not rule in Nassau any longer, Captain. It is best for all concerned if no one ever knows you were here. You are merely James so long as you are on these shores, and I expect you to remember that. If I am to ask about Gold for you, you will repay me by keeping order in my streets."

"We can manage that." Emma dug an elbow into Flint's ribs. "Thank you, again."

Max nodded regally, clearly signaling that the audience was at an end, and turned to leave in a sweep of skirts. Dismissed, Flint, Emma, David, and Charlotte left the house, the latter openly admiring. "She runs this place? She's amazing! A woman like – like her can be that powerful? It's wonderful."

Flint ignored this, clearly still feeling rather chafed, but Emma smiled wryly. "Aye, that's Max. I think she liked you too."

Charlotte blushed a delicate shade of pink, and seemed to be resisting the urge for further questions as they made their way down the street in the early evening light. David steered them to Charlie's office, where they were informed that Mr. Swan had gone home early to deal with an unexpected invasion of family, and perforce removed after him. Finally they reached his handsome half-timbered townhouse, knocked, and shortly thereafter, Emma was being warmly hugged by her little brother for the first time in years. "You finally decided to visit me here? I thought you never would!"

Emma felt a brief pang of guilt, thinking of how she had avoided returning to Charlie in Nassau, and Killian had avoided returning to Liam in Paris. For different reasons, but still. "Well, here we are, we've brought the whole lot. Except for Killian and our children, unfortunately, but then, you saw Geneva earlier, didn't you?"

Charlie squirmed. "Look – Emma – you know I wouldn't have asked her if I could have avoided it, but the situation with Mr. Silver was quite. . . it was quite. . ."

"Oh, I'm sure it was," Flint remarked coolly, surveying Charlie with a gimlet eye. "Mr. Silver has outwitted and outplayed men far cleverer than you, so you never stood a chance. I suppose stupidity can excuse you once, but if Thomas and Jenny come to any harm on your fool errand, you can be quite sure that promise is null and void."

"James, for heaven's sake!" There was something in Miranda's voice that went beyond her usual brisk managing of him, something sharp and raw and truly furious. "Perhaps you could at least pay your compliments to our host before you commence threatening him to his face? Or is even that bare bit of decency too much to expect from you?"

Everyone looked around at her in surprise and consternation, and even Miranda seemed taken aback by her outburst. Then, with a considerable and visible effort, she pulled herself together and smiled apologetically – at least with her mouth, as it did not touch her eyes. "Please do forgive me. I'm not hungry, I think I'll go to bed. Oh, and James? Do feel free to sleep in another room tonight."

With that, she picked up her cane and walked sharply away. Flint started after her, a look of deep distress on his face, but David got to his feet and caught him by the arm. "Hey, mate. I'm sure there's somewhere to put you up in mine. I think she needs some space tonight."

Flint looked as if he might reprimand David for presuming they were mates, but even he seemed aware that he could do with a bit of marital advice – as well as friendly male companionship, as that was the role Killian usually filled for him, and Emma knew that Flint missed him much more than he wanted to let on. If Flint could restrain from biting David's head off, he might even learn something valuable, and since he had established a working détente with Charlotte, it would be useful for that next to extend to David. Emma did love her adoptive father very much, but "people person" had never appeared on any list of his positive qualities.

They managed to find enough space in Charlie's spare rooms for the ten of them, but it was a tight fit, and it was clear that if they were going to stay more than a few days, they would need a second arrangement. Nonetheless, they woke up the next morning refreshingly un-murdered, and over breakfast, made plans to go out and turn over a few stones of their own. Nothing overt or openly shit-stirring, but none of them took well to sitting and waiting for others to do work for them, and if they could give Max's efforts a nudge or two, so much the better. Miranda was once again cordial, though her eyes were red, and she did not permit Flint to kiss her cheek before he departed. She turned and followed the children out to the back porch without a second look.

"Do you think she'll forgive me?" Flint asked Emma in an undertone as they, David, and Charlotte set out into the bright morning. "Is it still me getting myself wounded that she's angry about, or is it something else?"

"It's. . . that, yes, but there's more to it." Emma debated how much she should reveal, and what Miranda would want kept confidential, even from her husband. "She's worried, she's worried about Thomas, she's worried about you, she's worried about the whole family, and she's had to face first Charlestown and now Nassau in short order. Charlestown was more obviously terrible for both of you, but. . . Miranda's life here was scarcely happy. Often alone, viewed as a witch by the townsfolk, struggling to care for you, feeling that all you saw was the war and Thomas' absence and the injustice and the rage, having that burning desire for revenge herself, but only ever getting it indirectly, through you. Thinking it was enough and then some, and then hearing of Peter Ashe's betrayal. Now to return, when you seem too willing to pick up the war and start from scratch. . ."

Flint looked somewhat chagrined. "I don't want the  _war,"_ he said, after a moment. "I just want her and Thomas, I want them safe, I want them with me. That's all I've ever wanted. And, of course, the rest of our family. Miranda has never stopped me before, from doing what is – "

"I think she wonders if you know any way to keep them safe apart from the war," Emma said quietly. "And no, she didn't stop you from being Flint. But part of her cannot help but fear that she made a terrible mistake in standing aside and letting it go on as long as she did. Don't do that to her again. She can't bear it."

Flint started to say something, then stopped. Finally he said, "I'll do whatever I have to in order to find Gold, and only that, I swear. If nothing else, I did learn that I cannot fight the way I used to. But we can't just let him – "

"No, we can't. But Miranda has already had so much taken from her, and borne it. But she can't lose you one more time, and survive. Not after. . ." Emma paused. "Especially not after Sam."

Flint flinched at the name, knowing as always which Sam she meant. Not looking at her, he said, "That was years ago. It's done with."

"Yes," Emma said. "And Miranda's never spoken about it, not after the three of you were reunited. None of you have. She loved him so much, you know she did, and yet she did not say a word, if you would think it meant she loved Thomas less, or begrudged that it was him, and not Sam, that you two returned to. And it might be years ago, but none of us have grieved it properly. It was too much, too huge, too impossible, so we. . . we shut it away and got on with it, the way all of us always have. But I don't think that's working anymore."

Flint did not answer. Emma, stealing a sidelong look at him, thought his eyes might be slightly wet. But perhaps it was only a trick of the sunlight, for it was gone when she looked back. Then at last Flint said, "I would not give Thomas back for the world, no. But Sam, he. . . he was unique. There was no one like him, whether before or since. And I wish I had seen it back then, not merely in flashes and bits and brief moments. I wish I had been able to. But I wasn't, and I didn't, and. . . there was so much neither of us ever told him. Perhaps I hope that with enough time, I will forget those words. Instead, I only remember them more keenly."

It was Emma's turn to be caught off guard. Finally she said, "Then you should talk with Miranda about this. It's not dishonoring Thomas if you do, you know. I don't know him quite as well as you, but I'm sure he'd understand."

"It's not Thomas' reaction I'm worried about," Flint said, very softly. "Not entirely."

Emma looked up at him, grasping in some unspeakably poignant way that Flint feared that Miranda wished she had in fact died, that she had gone to be with Sam and at peace, rather than suffer the continued trials and misfortunes and disappointments of loving him. That if it was at all possible, she would choose Sam over him, and that she would be justified in doing so, if he could not try harder, could not give her what she needed so sorely, and patiently, silently gone without for so long. That he thought he understood, at last, why she was so angry, and would give anything to make it so that he had not.

Neither of them said anything after that, concentrating more than necessary on reaching the docks. David went off to find some of the merchants who sailed for the Nolan interests, and Flint, Emma, and Charlotte began to search for any new arrivals from elsewhere in the Caribbean, who might have heard or seen something at their ports of origin. After a bit, they spotted a small trading sloop flying Portuguese colors, and since it would be able to get into places that an English ship could not, they decided it worthwhile to investigate. They went up, and Flint bellowed, "Hey! The captain!"

A pause, and then the presumable individual appeared on the deck above, trailed by a mangy cur of a dog. The man had the look of a genial, rough-cut scoundrel, though one who had not been enjoying his best days recently. There was yellowish bruising that suggested healing black eyes, a gash across the bridge of his nose, and other assorted injures. Nonetheless, he doffed his hat at Emma and Charlotte with somewhat spurious gallantry. "My ladies. What may I do for you? João da Souza, master of the  _Senaita,_ at your service."

Flint cleared his throat. "I was the one who hailed you."

"Ah, yes. I hoped you were not the port master, back to rob me again. They told me that this was no longer a haunt of pirates, but I am not sure I believe it." The Portuguese captain cocked his head, considering Flint critically. "Do I know you? I feel as if I know you."

"No," Flint said. "Where did you come from, Da Souza?"

"I have told that fat man in the bad wig, I am telling you. . . why?"

"Because there may be a lot of money in it. Eh?"

All of them were expecting these to be the magic words, as they often were for gentlemen of fortune like João da Souza, but instead he raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I have recently spent some time on a similar venture, and it went – less than well. I nearly lost my command, in fact. Why exactly should I concern myself with you?"

"Look, you – "

"Or in fact. . ." Some gear was turning behind Da Souza's eyes, which Emma was not entirely sure she liked. "Perhaps you are already involved in it? I have recently arrived in Nassau, you see, on a tip from a boy. This boy claimed, of all the things, that he was the grandson of a certain famous pirate. And your face does look familiar, I am sure I have seen it on a wanted poster. Is it you then? Captain Flint?"

Everyone started badly, no one more than Emma. "Grandson?" she blurted out. "Did you – did you meet – "

"You are the boy's mother, I am wagering?" Da Souza smiled at her, picking his teeth with a finger. "He was a nice lad, your Sam."

Emma's feet felt frozen to the ground. She wasn't sure how Da Souza could be lying about this, if he had not in fact met her younger son and Sam had been in an inconveniently talkative mood, whether to save his neck or some other reason. "He  _was_ a nice – what did you, I swear, if you – "

"Calm down, calm down. There is no need for female hysterics." Da Souza leaned on the rail. "I can describe him, if you doubt me. About nineteen, tall and very skinny, with black hair. No cleverness or subterfuge whatsoever, but more than enough of stubbornness. Oh, and his friend, a few years older and far smarter. He, I do not doubt, has already stabbed me in the back. Very much a temper, that Jack Bell."

It was Charlotte's turn to look stunned. "Wh – Jack is with you?"

"He's with Sam?" Flint and Emma said in unison. "Where?"

Da Souza looked pleased at the effect of this little tidbit. "Yes, they were together. They were charged to find Skeleton Island, in fact, and Sam told me that it was near to Nassau. And here, of course, I find you. How fortunate."

"I don't care about Skeleton Island.  _Where is my son?"_

"You laid one of those filthy fingers on my grandson," Flint added, "and you – "

"Pirates, pirates. Always with the threats. Yes, I know where your Sam is. I can take you to him. But I am not going back with an empty hold. If you were to provide me with, say, an inducement, I can tell you?"

"Jack," Charlotte broke in. "Is Jack still with him?"

Da Souza shrugged. "As far as I know, yes. Jack was the one who caused that little disturbance for me, I will throw him in for free. What do you say?"

Flint, Emma, and Charlotte exchanged a wary look. It was unfortunately clear enough that Da Souza had in fact met Sam (and apparently, Jack), and thus they could not dismiss him out of hand. It was equally clear, however, that he planned to trick them into giving him something of value for the information, then turn around, stab them in the back, and be on his merry way. Flint and Emma were too used to scoundrels of his make to buy the apparent friendliness at face value, but if they could play his own game back on him, string him along enough to get him to reveal Sam's location and what villainy he might have done with him, they could teach him a valuable life lesson about picking fights with full-grown pirates, and not merely their hapless offspring. If he  _had_ hurt Sam – but no. Emma was not going to think that.

Instead, she made herself smile as brightly as possible, until her teeth ached. "I see no reason not to accept your bargain. Can we meet tonight, then?"

Da Souza readily agreed that they could, and gave them the name of a tavern where they should present themselves at six o'clock that evening, if they wished to further this acquaintance. It was one that Flint and Emma did not know, having apparently been built after the pirates' war, and she made a note to ask Charlie if there was anything unsavory associated with it that they should know about. With a final forced smile and nod to Da Souza, they departed.

The instant they were out of earshot, Flint dropped all pretense of civility. "That filthy, fucking, sniveling, groveling, cheating blackguard! Even if we did have a convenient chest of money to hand over, there's no way I'd think it was a wise investment to give it to him. He'll try to rob us blind and then get out while the getting is good, or he – "

"I know," Emma said wearily. "But he knows something about Sam."

Flint paused on whatever else he had been about to say, snapped his mouth shut, and nodded curtly. "Even if so," he added after a moment, "we'd need to go to the meeting – together, I did learn from my misadventure last time – prepared to shoot our way out of it, or whatever else would be necessary when it emerged that we were both deceiving the other. And against whatever thugs he's certain to have backing him up, you and I – or even ourselves, Nolan, and Mrs. Bell – would not be much of a defense."

"I  _can_ help," Charlotte insisted, overhearing this. "I doubt anyone, especially a man like Da Souza, expects to be threatened by someone like me. That would be the element of surprise, at least."

Flint gave her a grimly approving look. "You think like a soldier. Good. But I'm still not taking four people, including two men of grandfather age, one woman of similar, and you, against him and his miscreants. Aye, it could be he intends to peaceably negotiate and hand over the information, but I  _bloody_ doubt it. So – "

"You can't go canvassing for a new crew," Emma interrupted, sensing where this train of thought might be going and determined to head it off at the pass. "We have to stay inconspicuous, remember? That was the bargain we made with Max. If we put it out that Captain Flint is recruiting new men – or that  _anyone_ is recruiting a pirate crew, when this place has been at peace for many years – it will raise hackles. Besides, if we walk in with a dozen berserkers armed to the teeth, Da Souza will  _know_ something's awry. If it's just us four, well, he'll be more complacent. He won't realize – at least at first – that we're on to him."

"I thought you were the one against carrying out dangerous missions single-handedly." Flint sardonically indicated his still-bandaged skull. "Now I suggest getting help, and you're against that too?"

"This is different," Emma said. "You know it is."

Flint grunted, as if everyone was determined to crush his dreams today, and maintained a rather standoffish silence the rest of the way back to the house. Upon hearing the news, Charlie announced that he had some money which they could use as a lure, reel Da Souza in close enough to administer the knockout punch. He hoped they would consider it some small repayment for his unfortunate part in sending Thomas and Geneva off with Mr. Silver, and as well, he had a few men who provided security for his warehouses and goods, who could unobtrusively accompany them to the rendezvous and burst in if they heard any sounds of a struggle. As for the tavern, it was known as the sort of place you went if you wanted a deal done below the notice of the law, with a proprietor who could be paid for selective blindness, a relic of Nassau's olden days. Da Souza's intentions might be benign, or might not, but either way, he did not want English interests interfering with them.

Emma looked at her brother gratefully, but Flint, who plainly felt that a great deal more remained to be forgiven, merely grunted again. He had just left the room when Miranda entered it. "What's this? There's a man who knows where Sam is?"

"We think he does," Emma cautioned. "We're working on a plan to finagle that information out of him, while not falling straight into whatever trap he thinks he's setting. And of all the mad coincidences, we think Jack might be with Sam to boot."

A brief, strange expression flickered across Miranda's face at that, but she nodded composedly. "Well then, how fortuitous. That would make it easier for all of us, of course."

"Do you…" Emma hesitated. "Do you think this is the right thing to do?"

"Your son's life might be at stake. I certainly would not tell you to disregard that." Miranda looked at her levelly. "But you and I both know that James is far more tempted to break his word to Max than he would admit to either of us. He hates returning to Nassau, hates seeing it like this, this reminder of flaws and failures. But he also still loves it, loves the memory of who he was here, the power he wielded, the terror he inspired, the shadow he cast. I rather suspect there is nothing he would like more than an out-and-out war with Da Souza, whether for Sam's sake or otherwise. And I…" She hesitated. "I feel foolish, almost, for wondering if twenty years with myself and Thomas is enough to ever fully take that urge from him. If gentleness and ease will ever suffice to mend his soul altogether, if what James still needs, on some fundamental and unchanging level, is violence."

Emma did not know what to say to that. She could not tell Miranda that she was mistaken, thinking of her own conversation with Flint earlier and what she had tried to explain to him about the cause of Miranda's anger. They had all known that coming back here would be a challenge in more ways than one, reawakening old impulses that had been long buried, and Flint's innate chaos-causing inclinations, like a cat that saw a beautiful vase on a high shelf and could not rest until it had knocked it to the floor. Finally Emma said, "If Da Souza  _does_ know where Sam is, and gives us the information, he can have any money he wants. If not, or if he's hurt him in some way, Flint won't be the only one who wants the war."

Miranda absorbed this quietly, as if she had not expected another answer, nor blamed Emma for giving it, but could not help being hurt nonetheless. "You know," she said after a moment. "If – God absolutely forbid – Sam  _was_ gone, if he – "

"He's not," Emma said, with something close to panic. "He's not."

"Aye, of course not. But if he was. Killing Da Souza, giving rise to the renewed reign of Captain Flint, none of that – none of it would bring him back."

Emma started to say something, then stopped. She had a feeling that Miranda was reminding herself as much as Emma, after what she had said earlier about being willing to burn down the world if it would bring Sam senior back to them – but it wouldn't, and no amount of burning would change that. It was no wonder that Miranda would want to stop the rest of the family from plunging over the cliff into oblivion, in fruitless vengeance for Sam junior. It would not heal that hole, or save him as they could not save his namesake, but only rip it further. But the thought of that, of having to make that choice, of once more accepting that a Sam was lost, and this time her son, was unbearable.

"I'll look after James," Emma said at last. "You know I will."

Miranda gave her a polite, remote smile. "I am sure you will, my dear. But as Juvenal said in his  _Satires, quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"_

And with that, not waiting for Emma's answer, she left.

The mood remained tense that evening. Miranda and Charlie had accepted Max's invitation to supper, which they all suspected was a thinly disguised ruse to press them for more information about what they were really doing there and if their word could be trusted, but Miranda was the best at this sort of drawing-room diplomacy, and if it led them any closer to Gold, it could not be passed up. Henry and Violet stayed at the house with the children, and Flint, Emma, David, and Charlotte, after the addition of a few more weapons apiece, met up with Charlie's guards, collected the money they were using to inveigle Da Souza, and headed off for the tavern.

Da Souza was not yet there when they arrived. They found a corner table among the rest of the slightly shifty-looking patrons ("Ah, nostalgia," Flint remarked sourly) and settled in to wait, refusing drinks just in case; if there  _was_ going to be some sort of brawl, it was better to keep a clear head. Finally, just when it was late enough that they thought he wasn't coming (and Flint had all sorts of comments on how "six o'clock" must not mean the same thing to the Portuguese), they spotted him come through the door, with a few henchmen in tow. He wended his way through the thinning crowd and smiled at them. "Ah, my friends. You are here."

"Yes," Flint said coldly. "And on time, unlike you."

Da Souza shrugged. "Only a chance for a little business. You must not hold it against me. Shall we go somewhere a bit more private?"

"I imagine you're already trying to fuck us in one way, nobody wants it in any other. So you can talk to us here, and now. Where's my grandson?"

"Did you bring the money?"

Flint nodded at Emma, who pulled out the sack and threw it at Da Souza, not caring if it hit him in the head, but he snatched it expertly out of the air, weighed it in his hand, and then arched an eyebrow. "This is all your boy's life is worth to you?"

Flint shifted in a way that meant he had reached for his gun under the table. "It's more than you deserve. Well?"

Da Souza's eyes followed the movement, and there was a brief, tense moment. Then the Portuguese captain smiled deferentially. "Of course. You are right. As a matter of fact, your son is nearby. Come."

Flint and Emma were startled. "Sam's  _here?"_

"That's what I said, is it not? Or unless you still do not wish to see him…"

After a pause and a sharp glare, they got to their feet, as Charlotte and David did the same. Da Souza held up a hand. "No, not them. Just you."

Emma liked this less than ever, and was on the very point of turning and walking out, but the tiniest whisper of a chance, however absurd, that Sam was somewhere on the island stopped her. She glanced at Charlotte, who said, "Please, Captain, I should come too. If Jack is with him, perhaps I can talk some sense into him. I am just a girl, how could I be any threat to you?"

Da Souza considered, then shrugged again. "If you wish. We will leave your companion here to hold down the fort. Now then. Yes?"

With David left to glower suspiciously across the table at Da Souza's minions, Flint, Emma, and Charlotte warily followed the captain himself out the back of the tavern, into the dark courtyard, and down the narrow, muddy alley. They walked for a few minutes, every nerve on screamingly high alert, until Da Souza beckoned them through a gate. "In here, please."

Emma took a grip on her pistol beneath her jacket, as she saw Flint doing the same, unable to repress a terrified, desperate hope that its use would not be called for at all, and it would in fact be her son in there, somewhat baffled and battered but whole. Then with a sharp indrawn breath, they faced up to the breach, and, with Charlotte on their heels, plunged through.

Inside, there was another nondescript courtyard, closed in with whitewashed walls, as Emma's eyes swept in every direction for Sam. Then there was a boom and a clank as the gates shut behind them, and Da Souza rammed in the bolt, turning back around with an expression of cold resolve, all assumed friendliness gone. "Where," he said, "is Skeleton Island?"

"You fucking bastard," Flint said. "Of course Sam isn't here, is he."

"No, he is not." Da Souza seemed completely untroubled by this admission of bald-faced deceit. "But as I said. He is  _nearby._ I can tell you, if you give me the bearings to Skeleton Island. I know you know them, and one measly sack of silver does not seem a fair price for the boy's life. How much do you love him, really?"

"Plenty," Flint said. "So you can offer some proof of this shit you're spinning out of your arse, or I can just kill you right here and save us the trouble."

Da Souza's smirk said that he did not think this senior citizen had any likelihood of causing serious harm to him. "Very well. We can go with that. You know that it pains me to hit a woman, but which one should I start with, until you talk? Your daughter, or Jack Bell's wife? Though if she is married to him, perhaps she enjoys a beating from time to time."

Emma and Charlotte opened their mouths in outrage, as Flint went for his gun, but Da Souza was faster. He cocked the hammer with his thumb and trained the heavy pistol dead between Flint's eyes, warning him not to do that if he had any interest in still having a hand when he was done. "I would not, Grandfather. You are old, and slow, and nobody is frightened of you any more. By the looks of things, you've recently had that proven to you, but I do not object to doing it again. This can be easy, so easy.  _Where is Skeleton Island?"_

Flint's eyes burned like green fire. "Fuck you."

Da Souza sighed, as if to say that his hand had been forced, and swung around on Emma. "So it's her I am starting with, then?"

Flint tensed as if to spring, an action that would doubtless have had very bad consequences for all concerned, but at that moment, there was another click and clunk as Charlotte pulled out her hand with her own pistol in it. "No sudden moves, Captain da Souza."

Caught off guard for the first time, Da Souza stared at her, then laughed. "That is very fierce of you, darling, yes. Now, if the men get back to their business, we can – "

Charlotte smiled the exact sort of smile that he had earlier, in amused disbelief that any feeble threat had the power to hurt her. "I believe Captain Flint has a question for you."

Da Souza raised an eyebrow, as if to say that he didn't recall that happening recently, but that was when – an instant too late – he realized the mistake he had made by turning his back on him. He whirled around, just in time to be greeted by Flint hauling off and slugging him hard enough to make the younger, stronger man stagger back into the courtyard wall. "I do have a question, yes. Where the fuck is my grandson, you fucking shit?"

Da Souza spat blood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He started to lunge at Flint, but Charlotte pulled the trigger, and a boom went off directly beside his head, leaving a bullet hole less than an inch from his ear. He stared at it, then turned to her with an attempt at his devil-may-care smile. "You missed."

"You really think I missed?" Charlotte stowed the spent gun back in her jacket and pulled out another, with a sweet smile. "I  _am_ Black Jack's wife, after all."

Flint briefly looked as if he was going to say something, then didn't. He cracked his knuckles with deliberate thoroughness, swinging his arms over his head, as if to be plenty sure that he was limber. Then he turned back to the job at hand. "Where's Sam?"

Da Souza tried to keep his eyes on Flint's fists and Charlotte's gun at the same time, evidently not feeling quite as cocky as before about the odds of three on one. Just to make the point clear, Emma drew her own pistol. "Oh, but of course," she said. "We're old. Has-beens. We couldn't possibly hurt you. Now, my father has in fact asked you a question.  _Where's Sam?"_

"I…" Da Souza licked his lips. "I left him in St. Kitts. He was a very brash boy, your Sam, but useless. For what we had been asked to do – "

"My son is not useless," Emma said. "Where did you leave him in St. Kitts?"

Da Souza hesitated.

"Answer her, you pustulant arse-licker." Flint examined his scraped knuckles, blew on them, and then produced a gun in each hand, causing Da Souza's eyes to whiz between the four different muzzles. "Or is it the head, the chest, or the balls you want to be shot in first?"

"I…" Da Souza finally had to accept that everything had turned on him rather badly. "Fine. I threw him overboard. Jack Bell caused a great disturbance, stole my boat, and went after him. I have no idea where they have gone. Perhaps he drowned, but if not, when I find him – "

"You were lying?" Emma felt her heart turn over, as she had expected this to be a ruse of some sort, but still managed to be surprised by the depths of Da Souza's chicanery. "You knew you'd already tried to kill him and you couldn't bring him to us, but tried to lie and manipulate us and lead us on for the bearings of Skeleton Island anyway? You son of a  _bitch,_ you – "

Da Souza might have been about to answer, but Flint pointed both guns at him, face a steel mask. Cornered, the Portuguese captain raised his hands, blood still running from his smashed nose and lip. "You do not want to kill me. This is unfortunate, yes, but it can be overlooked. We can search together for the treasure, for – "

"We don't want treasure," Emma said tightly. "And we know more than enough of men like you. So that's the last time you saw Sam? Throwing him off your ship at St. Kitts?"

"Yes, all right? I did try to find Skeleton Island by lying about your son. Of course I did. All that treasure, you and your father are the only ones in the world who know exactly where it is, and you never went back for it? Are you insane? You could have had it all for yourselves, and laughed at the world trying to search for it. So what, you will let it sit there and rot? Foolish."

"There are more important things in the world." Emma's finger tightened on the trigger. Her hand was shaking violently, and she felt something hot and hard and red hammering under her breastbone like a lump of molten iron, blinding her with hatred that this man had tried to kill her son – might have succeeded, if Jack hadn't gotten there in time – and could just stand there talking about it so casually, without any remorse or care for anything except the lost fortune of Skeleton Island. Something burned through her then, wild and uncontrollable as a bonfire, and she jerked the pistol up, slammed the hammer back, and fired.

Da Souza staggered, a red bloom of blood unfolding on his shirt from where Emma had winged him in the upper arm. He stared at her as if confused and indignant that she had actually had the temerity to shoot him. "Crazy bitch, how could you – "

Flint swung his own gun around and fired, which would have caught Da Souza in the other arm if he hadn't ducked just in time. "Don't you speak to my daughter that way, or the next one goes through your eye. Crawl back to your Spanish masters and tell them there's no fucking way they or anyone are getting that treasure, and they'll just have to live with the knowledge that they lost it, forever. And next time we meet, if my grandson is dead, so are you. Get it?"

Da Souza hesitated. Charlotte took the opportunity to shoot a hole into the wall on the exact opposite side of him.

Beleaguered, baffled, bested, and bleeding, the Portuguese captain had to concede defeat. He backed away, hand clasped to his wounded arm, gave them a final baleful stare, then turned and scuttled into the night, leaving a ringing silence in his wake. Emma thought they should get out of there, as the sound of gunshots would likely attract someone to investigate, but she remained rooted to the spot, shaking, until she felt Charlotte's hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"I…" Emma struggled for a breath through the ache in her chest. "Do you think Jack managed… I don't know how he met my son, but… Da Souza tried to kill him, he…"

"If Jack set his mind to something, I'd not fret about it," Charlotte said wryly. "I don't mean to mock you, or diminish your worry, but… Da Souza only said he  _tried_ to kill Sam, I don't think he actually did. And from what I can tell, your family has a few extra lives apiece."

"We do, at that." Flint finally holstered his other gun, crossed to Emma, and put a hand under her elbow. "Next time we see that slime, if Sam – well. I'll make sure there are no mistakes."

Emma didn't think she could answer just yet, and was grateful for them steering her out of the alley and back to the tavern, keeping a weather eye out for anyone who might feel inclined to jump them. They reunited with David and Charlie's men, who were annoyed that they had gone off by themselves, but impressed to hear how they had handled the resultant situation. Everyone was particularly taken with Charlotte's marksmanship. "Jack taught you that?" Flint asked. "What you called him earlier, Black Jack – is that something he's known by?"

"Jack taught me how to handle a gun in the first place, yes. I was the one who practiced until I was good with it. He does not get the credit for that." Charlotte shrugged. "Come on, it's late."

Flint gave her a look as if to say that she had once again evaded his other question, but she had managed to get herself far enough into his good books for him not to press. They made it back to Charlie's house, where they found Miranda sitting up in the living room by the light of a single candle, book open on her lap but clearly long forgotten. At the sight of them, she started to her feet, and it clattered to the floor in a soft flutter of pages. "What happ…?"

"We met Da Souza," Flint said. "Turned the tables on him. He was lying through his teeth the whole time, the fucking bastard. He tried to kill Sam in St. Kitts – threw him overboard – but we don't think he succeeded," he added hastily, as Miranda had gone white as a sheet. "At any rate, he doesn't know where Sam is now, he was trying to trick the coordinates for Skeleton Island out of us. I told him to go groveling back to the Spanish, but Emma managed to leave a token of our esteem on his way out."

Miranda's eyes moved to Emma, searching her face, before they turned back to her husband. "And you… let him go alive, then?" It was hard to tell whether or not she approved.

"Aye." Flint blew out a slow breath. "I can't deny it, I  _wanted_ to kill him, very much, especially after he taunted me that I couldn't possibly hurt him. But we managed to show him that he was bloody mistaken, and… it was good to know that I could still be Flint. That I could come out on top and defeat someone else who underestimated me. But that's it. It was  _enough._ I did not want to stay as him.I wanted to take off that skin, that other self, that man I gave back to the sea long ago, and come home to you."

Miranda did not answer, but her eyes were bright, her lips less than steady. Then without a word, she lifted her arms, put them around his neck, and James drew her close against him, burying his face in her loosened brown-silver curls, breathing deep. They stood there for the longest moment, foreheads pressed together, and then he lifted her with only a slight grunt of effort and carried her to the stairs, clearly to effect further reparations in private. Emma watched them go, feeling raw and poignant and tender and heart-rendingly, bone-bendingly lonely.  _Killian, where are you? Oh God, where are you? Come home. Come home to me._

The night did not answer, the Nassau wind whispering through the palms, keeping its mysteries and its secrets. She stood there, in a prayer beyond words for her husband and her daughter and her son, and then went to lie down alone.

* * *

Jim was climbing past the bulkhead when he heard the voices. He almost didn't, as they were hushed for most likely this exact reason, but he let go of the ladder, dropped down light as a cat, and made his way stealthily toward the source of the noise. He wasn't ordinarily a no-good spying sneak, listening in on things that didn't concern him, but he had also gotten the distinct impression that something was not at all right aboard the  _Rose –_ and not just Geneva kissing him, either. That had caused Jim to wake up in embarrassment from some highly inappropriate dreams last night, and still flipped his stomach over every time he thought about it. A woman so far beyond his league, who had not been altogether interested in his mooning gazes (he knew they were mooning, but she was just so amazing) who had teased him after he inadvertently caught her in the bath, but more with pitying amusement than passionate arousal…  _she_ had kissed  _him._ It had been the most wonderful moment of Jim Hawkins' life at the time, and in some way it still was, but… hard as he tried, he could not entirely put aside a lingering doubt.

Much as Jim wanted to believe that Geneva had kissed him simply because – well, she just couldn't resist, or something – it did not fit with her shrewd, stubborn, no-nonsense nature, which in fact was one of the things that had attracted him to her. She was too smart and too in control of herself to do something like that, and he had the distinct feeling that he had been going to do something, or ask about something, before she knocked it out of his head so effectively. Aye, well, he was a young man, and she was a beautiful woman, so of course it worked. But seeing the way she kept flinching when anyone spoke unexpectedly, and looking around warily, and how Jim, observing Mr. Silver, had seen a flicker of disquiet on his face as well… no. He did not think he was imagining it. Something else was going on here.

Jim crept to the end of the narrow catwalk and came to a halt, pressing his ear to the wall. It sounded like two voices on the other side – one in fact Mr. Silver's, and the other's a woman. It was not Geneva or Madi, the two women that Jim knew to be aboard, and he edged closer, frowning. What the –

" – fascinating tale how you came to be aboard, of course?" Silver was saying. "Though I suppose it was foolish for any of us to assume we'd seen the last of you."

"Did you think I'd do anything else?" The woman's voice was sharp, and just then, Jim recognized it: Mrs. Rogers, the one they'd met outside the church in Bristol, who Silver and Madi had had such an odd reaction to seeing. What in the  _hell_ was she doing here? She had to have stowed away, as there was no way she had done so legitimately; they would have seen her, and Jim knew that Silver and Madi, no matter how hard they tried to hide it, had been arguing about whether to permit her. Unless Silverhad agreed to spirit her aboard without telling the others, to keep her as an extra chess piece in his back pocket – in even a comparatively short acquaintance, Jim had gotten more than an idea as to the older man's tendencies – but that reference to a fascinating tale seemed to indicate that for once, this was not his fault. Still, to know that an intruder was aboard the vessel, and not inform –

"No," Silver said, after a long moment. "I confess, I did not think you would."

"So, then. I – I realize my presence may not be the most welcome, but I heard you've become first mate. You can talk to Geneva, can't you? Convince her to let me above-board, or at least to a berth with the crew. I wouldn't have to see Madi, but I wouldn't have to sleep in the filth either. Down there, it's…"

"Indeed. What  _is_ down there? Apart from yourself, of course."

Mrs. Rogers hesitated. "Nothing. And I don't advise you going down anyway. A man like you in the dark. It would be quite dangerous."

"Of course," Silver said. "It's my safety you're concerned about."

Jim shifted, trying to free his foot, which was falling asleep, without tipping them off that he was there. This all sounded, to his lookout, highly fishy indeed, and while it was of course possible that Silver was intending to depart straightaway from this conversation to report to Geneva, it was just as possible that he wasn't. Jim remained low, waiting.

"I am," Eleanor Rogers answered coolly. "Concerned about your safety, and that of everyone on this ship. I want to get to Barbados, soon and alive. That's why I came up when I heard you thumping around on that iron leg of yours. You're going to get yourself into trouble, again. Why don't you just trust me on this?"

"Is that what you would do, in my place?"

"Yes, I know." Eleanor's voice turned bitter. "Know what is said of both of us, that anyone who ever trusted us did so in grave error. Do you wear that easily, then?"

That seemed to catch Silver off guard, and he had no immediate response. Then he said, "And why do you think I could persuade Geneva?"

"Why do you think you couldn't?"

"I could try, yes. But that would entail revealing that you came aboard her ship without permission, and – "

"You fucking idiot." Eleanor's voice rose, and she had to quickly catch it. "Geneva already knows about – about me. She found me belowdecks, that's likely why you got suspicious and came to look yourself, isn't it? Something about her tipped you off, and you didn't believe her when she tried to deflect you. Am I wrong?"

A long pause. John Silver said, "No."

"So. She knows I'm here. You won't be surprising her with that information, for once. When we reach Barbados, Matthew will be grateful, he'll pay her. That, or Gold will. Either way, it will be profitable, if that's all you – "

" _Gold?"_ The man named for the other precious metal sounded flabbergasted, though Jim had no idea why. "Gold is – Robert Gold, your old bedfellow? Christ, he's still around causing – ?"

It was clear from Eleanor's marked silence that she had not meant to let that slip. Finally she said grudgingly, "Yes. Robert Gold."

"Jesus." Silver sounded as if he couldn't decide whether to be enraged or blackly amused. "And people call  _me_ treacherous and unreliable. So what, you think Geneva would want to sail for the haunt of the man who destroyed her father's life and was the pirates' most notorious and dangerous enemy – alongside, of course, your late husband? Do you think there's any way I could, or  _should,_ talk her into that?"

"Why not?" Eleanor said challengingly. "What is this, a  _personal_  scruple for Long John Silver? Don't tell me you care for her as much as that."

Silver was quiet, long enough that Jim almost lost his balance trying to peer around the corner. Then Silver said, struggling audibly with the words, "Yes, in fact."

"I don't want to hurt her, as I said. I just want to see my son. I wasn't lying about that."

"So you'd lead the rest of us straight into the lion's mouth, as before?" Silver's voice was honed to a finer and finer edge, like a blade grinding sparks from a whetstone. "After what the war cost us – cost  _me_ – to stop last time? All these years, and you have not changed a day."

"Is that it, then? What's at stake? Your selfishness, or mine?"

Another fraught pause. Jim slid far enough to get one eye out, very carefully, and saw the two of them – black-haired, one-legged old pirate, and blonde-haired, furious-faced society widow – staring each other down like gladiators about to commence the duel. Indeed, he wasn't entirely sure that one of them wasn't going to hit the other, but they didn't. Then Silver shook his head and stepped back, rubbing a hand over his beard as if to disguise his rattled composure. "There are too many people I care about aboard this ship," he said. "I can't let you do that."

"You should," Eleanor said. It sounded half a threat, half real fear of her own. "You really should do as I say."

"Or what? Then the little surprise in the hold plays its part?"

Eleanor crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "Since you ask. Yes."

"What the  _fuck_ is down there? What did you bring with you?"

"Just – just don't. If you care about them, prove it. Stay away. Either way, you have to make a choice, just as much as I do." Eleanor turned on her heel. "Their lives are in your hands. I suggest you think about that."

With that, she made to go, and Jim flattened himself against the bulkhead in sudden panic that she was coming this way, but she went to the hatch that led into to the hold, pulled it open, and climbed in. Silver looked for a moment as if he was going to follow, his leg be damned, but there was a scraping and a scuffling as if Eleanor was wedging something heavy against it, in expectation of him trying just this. Hence Silver remained where he was, still looking pole-axed, until the sounds had faded. Then he turned to go himself, stopped, and blanched. "Mr. Hawkins."

"Aye." Jim took a defiant step forward. He had thought about skedaddling and pretending he had never been here, but not for very long. "Having a little chat, were you?"

"Jim." Silver took a step of his own. "Let's – let's consider this carefully, all right? Did you – "

"Yeah," Jim said. "I heard it. Most of it, at least. Enough to know Mrs. Rogers is hiding down here, and you're trying to decide whether to sell us out to what's his name, Robert Gold, by telling Geneva to sail for Barbados. Difficult choice, is it?"

"Jim." Silver still looked rattled – and somehow hurt beyond just this accusation. The two of them had been – well, it was too soon to say that they were anything, they had only just met, but despite Geneva's warnings about the man, Jim had found himself accidentally liking him anyway. There was something about Silver that was in turns father and older brother and favorite scalawag uncle, and Jim, who had never had any of these – the uncle only, and them not particularly close – couldn't help but be drawn to it. As well, he had the sense that Silver had a soft spot for him in return, for the same reasons in reverse: son or little brother or vagrant nephew, or perhaps just the first person in ages who had not met him and immediately hated him. "Jim, you have to believe me, I'm not going to – "

He stopped.

"Not going to do what?" Jim folded his own arms. "Sell us out, or tell Geneva that you know about this, or meddle in it, or…?"

Silver seemed to be in a vain hunt for words, which normally came so easily. At last he said, "Geneva and I got off on the wrong foot, and it has been difficult to correct that course since. She's too much like her grandfather. No matter how much you hit either of them with the ox-goad, they proceed down the path they've already chosen, and… well. You like her, don't you."

"I…" Jim would not be swayed over a tender appeal for the woman they apparently both had feelings for, in some confused shape or form, even as he wasn't sure that that was what Silver was doing anyway. "Sure, it was a bit awkward when I thought her uncle killed my father, but since he didn't…"

Silver looked very much as if he was about to say something, then nodded and forced a smile. "Aye. As I told you, Liam Jones didn't do it. And Geneva is easy to admire. She's a formidably talented young woman, among other qualities. You do want to help her, don't you?"

Jim hesitated, wary of a trap. Finally he said guardedly, "Yes."

"Very well. I must ask you a favor. Don't tell her that we know this, not yet. I need time to work out what exactly is going on here, what Eleanor is hiding from us. I don't think she's lying about there being some danger, and… I did this, I did all of this, because I was trying to… the threat that Billy posed, what he wants to do to us, to…" Again, Silver stopped. Jim had not seen him quite this off guard before, struggling to explain himself, desperate for the younger man's understanding and vindication, for anyone to remotely grasp what he had tried so hard to save. "I know it seems deceitful to you, but – "

"Aye," Jim said. "It does, in fact. So you'll need to give me a better reason than just you want time to think. I'm not playing her false like that, I won't – "

"And you think she's being entirely honest with you?" Silver, with his usual uncanny intuition, had somehow caught onto that small chink in Jim's armor, that flicker of doubt that could not entirely be banished. "As I said, lad, she's so very like her grandfather. What happened with us… I wouldn't want that for the two of you."

"Her grandfather," Jim said. "Captain Flint, you told me back in Bristol. The one whose treasure we're  _supposed_ to be after?"

"It's not  _his_ treasure, exactly." Silver glanced away. "Believe me, it's complicated."

"Shockingly enough, I can see that."

Silver chuckled, very dryly. "Aye, I suppose that much was obvious."

Jim was not going to permit the brief moment of camaraderie to distract him from the issues at hand. "You still need to give me one good reason why I shouldn't tell Geneva everything I just heard, and I don't think you can. I'm not buying you time to get some trick or plot in place. Or perhaps I should just wait until tonight, climb down there myself, and see what's – "

"No." Silver made a convulsive movement, as if to grab his arm. "No, lad, don't go down there alone."

"Then we're going to Geneva  _and_ Madi right now, and we can see what, you know, the bloody  _captain_ of this ship has to say about Mrs. Rogers and her presence on – "

"No!" For a moment, Silver sounded truly terrified. "Jesus Christ, you don't understand everything that's going on here, that would – "

"No, because you never tell anyone anything, do you? Keep it to yourself until it's of greatest use, just like Geneva said you did." Jim himself felt hurt more than he should be, how quickly he seemed to have lost his grip on someone who had seemed to like him without an ulterior motive. He and Silver were equally hungry for it, had caught onto each other so briefly, and now saw it inexorably slipping away. "So if you even can, then – "

Silver's eyes met his. He looked backed into a corner in more ways than one, struggling to regain any sort of control or command or sense over the situation. Almost pleadingly, he said, "I can."

"Aye?" Jim glared at him. "Prove it."

"I… look…" There seemed to be no words for how much Silver did not want to do this, how he was taking no joy in it at all, and yet it burst out of him. "Very well, then. There's something you should know.  _Liam_ Jones didn't kill your father."

"Yes, we just mentioned that, so unless – "

"Not him, no, but a Jones did." Silver's gaze was burning blue, unblinking. "Liam's brother, Geneva's father. 1715, in Nassau. Killian Jones killed your father."


	17. XVII

"There's nothing for it," Sam said. "We have to get out of here."

"Now?" Nathaniel looked around as if expecting them to have to shimmy down a drain or blast their way through a crowd of redcoats or something else dramatic. "Look, I know Jack decided to be even more a turd than before, but why does that mean we have to – "

"It's complicated." Sam was not sure that he wanted to tell his best friend the full and sordid saga of the last few weeks, but he supposed he owed him that much at least. "You saw what Gold said down there. He's going to torture me, or something else bad, to try to draw Jack out of hiding. He – well, on the  _Griffin,_ they tried to flog me, and Jack got pissed and stopped it, so they think if they beat on me again, he'll appear from wherever he's run off to. I don't think it'll work, but I'm not bloody interested in finding out."

"Why would Jack stop them from flogging you in the first place?" Nathaniel looked even more bewildered. "I mean, good of him, but –"

"It's something to do with his dad," Sam said, feeling a brief prick of disloyalty, and then reminding himself that he didn't owe Jack Bellamy a single thing. "He was in the Navy, and he was an abusive brute, and… never mind. Anyway. We have to think of something ourselves. Nobody is coming to help us."

"But," Nathaniel said uncertainly. "I know you didn't want your mum and dad to come here, but if our only other shot of getting out of here was with Matthew Rogers, and that didn't work –"

"My mum and dad aren't coming." Sam pulled out the advert he had torn from the newspaper and pointed at it. "Mr. Barth Jones, of Georgia – that's my dad, see, Bartholomew is his middle name, they didn't want to use Killian, but it's him, I know it. He's missing, he's been taken somewhere, I don't know by who, but he – he and Gold, er, they don't get on. So even if he did come here, it would be a terrible flaming mess, like I said. You're right, we probably can't get off Barbados itself with everyone looking for us – at least through Bridgetown. Maybe we can cross the island and find some smaller boat on the backside."

"Maybe," Nathaniel said. "But remember the part where we can't sail?"

"We could pay someone."

"With what money? Da Souza already took all your silver on the way down from Florida."

"We could – we could – " Sam struggled for a third option. "We could intimidate them into doing it" was clearly not going to work, given as he'd start apologizing the instant he had to threaten anyone. Besides, a pair of scrawny lads staring over their shoulders for Robert Gold's pursuing minions were far from anyone's idea of menacing. "Don't tell me you just want to sit here and twiddle your thumbs? We have to do something!"

"Of course I don't want to stay here," Nathaniel said. "But we've got to think about this more than half-arsedly. We're not going to escape Gold by sneaking out of his house at night and trying to cross the entire island to find some random bloke with a boat who is, frankly, far more bloody likely to sell us straight back to the governor, rather than risk getting on that man's bad side. What, you thought we'd just turn up and they'd agree to sail us back home with no money and no incentive for it? Come on, Sam!"

Sam stared at his friend, feeling rather taken aback – as noted, it was usually his job to think up their schemes, and Nathaniel's job to help him carry them out, no matter a token protest or two. It wasn't that he thought Nathaniel should never have any ideas of his own, but it was more that Nathaniel's trust in him seemed to be cracking its foundations, that no matter how many times Sam had promised to get them home, Nathaniel was thinking (not without reason) that he was going to have to do it himself. There was a slightly fraught pause as they stared at each other, ears peeled for any sounds from downstairs that might indicate some of Gold's thugs coming up for a preliminary round of questioning. Perhaps, Sam thought, he  _was_ wrong about all this, Barth Jones wasn't Dad, and Gold was just planning to do nothing at all and hope Jack felt like turning up. But he  _really_ wasn't going to bet on it, and between being thrown overboard, attempted floggings, and broken hearts (shut up about the last one, it counted) he was feeling decidedly in the mood to escape any more pain if possible. A real pirate would not sit here mumpishly, waiting for Gold to decide on a perfect sting. A real pirate would take action.

"Right," he said, when Nathaniel continued to regard him with one ginger eyebrow cocked in skepticism. "I'm already feeling it's a bit fishy Gold let us go back up here at all, and didn't drag us off on the spot. Can't even think why he would, unless…"

"Could be," Nathaniel suggested, "he's waiting for Matthew to leave?"

"Doubt it." Sam twisted his fingers together, cracking his knuckles. "Matthew doesn't have a problem with seeing me get my arse kicked, believe me. Given as he had his own underlings do it to me on the  _Griffin._ It's not like he'd suddenly turn squeamish about whatever it took to recapture Jack, especially since I called him a traitor to his face earlier."

Nathaniel put his head in his hands. "You did what?"

"Well, I went to talk to him, and I ended up saying that I knew who his parents were, and if my parents made me a traitor, then so did his, and… well, yeah, it was a bit of a disaster, I admit. But since that's so, he's probably even more eager to see me get a thumping for my – "

"Maybe," Nathaniel said, "but maybe Gold doesn't want to push it. Just in case. Wants to look extra good and virtuous until Matthew leaves, so Matthew can feel confident that he doesn't have to question his commitment ever again. Can't be any other reason."

"Maybe," Sam echoed. Once again, however absurd, the urge flared to try to sneak them out on the  _Griffin –_ but Matthew would have no incentive at all to help, after how badly matters had gone earlier. And it would mean leaving Jack behind, to whatever sure-to-be-delightful fate Gold would have in store for someone who had tried to kill him, a scion of his old enemies. Much as Sam was irritated with Jack, and how much he had deliberately aggravated the situation in any number of ways, the idea of callously abandoning him to probable torture and death turned his stomach. If Jack's kinship to Sam Bellamy senior meant that of course he would never like Sam junior much, it also meant that Sam could not return to his family and inform them that he had let him die.  _Besides, if I ever met Charlotte, how could I tell her that?_

Reading his mind, Nathaniel said, "Why  _does_ Jack mean so much to you, anyway?"

"He doesn't  _mean_ much, he…" Sam trailed off. "Remember who I'm named for?"

"Yeah?"

"They're related. Bell stands for Bellamy. He's my godfather's nephew, his sister's lad. So he's extended family, in a way, and like I said, he saved me from a few poundings."

"He's the one who's run off without us," Nathaniel pointed out. "And you had quite the row earlier, so I'd say we don't exactly owe him anything."

"We don't, but…" Sam turned away, restless and unsettled and unhappy. "If we  _can_ sneak out of here, he can't be hiding too far from the house. Probably wants another chance at stealing in and doing for Gold tonight. If we can meet up with him, he will punch our way to wherever we're going. Trust me, you haven't seen him in action. He's a prick, but he can  _really_ fight."

Nathaniel looked back at him with lingering doubt. "Gold will post guards on every door, for that exact reason. What are we going to do, just walk out?"

"Well then." Sam squared his shoulders. "Guess we aren't going out the door."

The first order of business was to find something to serve as a rope. The old bedsheet standby was a possibility, and there weren't exactly loads of other options, but they did not need something terribly fancy, just enough to transport them from Nathaniel's bedroom window to the roof of the veranda. From there, they could skin down to the garden, and then, if they had timed the guards' rounds correctly and would have a few moments unobserved, jump the wall and make it into the trees beyond. Sam felt that Jack would not be hard to locate if they appeared like this, but the trick was not crashing through the underbrush like a stampeding elephant and thus alerting all of Gold's guards to their whereabouts as well. They would not have long to make a clean getaway, and had to calculate for almost immediate pursuit, which complicated things. Jack might have gotten his hands on a gun or two, but it was not going to be enough to deter the governor's entire household.  _Run like hell, then run harder?_

In any event, especially as he had seen Matthew leaving the house about half an hour ago, Sam was not in the mood to take any further chances with his rather battered hide. If the sake of appearances for Captain Rogers' sake  _had_ been what was constraining Gold, that obstacle was now removed, and he turned to Nathaniel. "Ready?"

"I suppose," Nathaniel said dubiously, eyeing their makeshift tether of knotted quilts and sheets. "Sam, are you  _sure_ we shouldn't just – "

"We can do this, all right?" Sam considered the window, which was locked. He grabbed part of the rope, muffled the quilt well around his fist, and punched it smartly above the latch.

Nothing happened.

 _This is harder than it looks._ Sam prospected around, got a heavy brass candlestick, and glanced warily out at the lawn below; he did not want to break the glass right when everyone was standing there looking up at him. He waited until the guards had vanished out of sight around the corner of the mansion, then hit the window again.

A fine webwork of cracks splintered up it this time, but it still didn't break. Sam wondered if Gold ordered his windows specially reinforced for this exact reason, so anyone he happened to be holding prisoner upstairs could not just wander off while he was distracted, but it was bloody inconvenient, and he did not intend to be thwarted so soon into his great escape. With one more almighty bash, which made slightly more noise than he liked, he managed to break the pane, and gingerly slithered his quilt-wrapped arm through to grab the hook on the other side. He flipped it over, pulled his arm back, and opened the window, panting. "See? Nothing to it."

They could not count on nobody hearing that, and they had to move fast, knotting the rope tightly around the pole of the bedstead, feeding it out, and discovering that they did not have quite enough to reach the roof of the veranda as a result; they would have to let go and jump the last five or six feet. There was nothing sturdier to tie the rope to closer to the window, and it was clearly impossible to move the heavy carved oak bedframe. Cursing Gold's affinity for fancy furniture, Sam glanced quickly around for anything else in the room they could tie on, didn't find it, and edgily thought he might hear footsteps venturing upstairs. "I'll go first."

Nathaniel paused, then nodded. He moved to pay out the rope as Sam took hold of it, stepped up on the sill, and checked that the coast was clear. Then he swallowed hard, braced his weight against the wall, and walked backwards, out into the night, and down the side of the house. Reached the end of the tether, felt his arms wrenching, looked below at the veranda (somehow six feet seemed quite a bit more daunting from this angle), and let go.

He managed to fall more or less gracefully, but still caught his ankle beneath him with a brief, bright snap of pain, and hoped he'd only twisted it. Winded, he rolled – then, to his horror, heard what sounded like one of the guards coming back earlier than he was supposed to, most likely to investigate some funny noises. "Pull it up!" he hissed at the window. "Quick, pull it up!"

Fortunately, Nathaniel was quick on the uptake, jerked the rope back up, and closed the window, just as one of Gold's guards rounded the corner with a quizzical, frowning expression. He passed less than five feet away from Sam, who was lying flat on the veranda roof and trying not to breathe too hard; it was, luckily, above the guard's line of sight. Praying that he did not look up and spot the broken window, Sam waited, hearing every heartbeat thump in his throat, until the guard shrugged and kept on going, vanishing around the corner of the house again. Nathaniel's shadow appeared briefly, then the window opened again, the rope dropped, and he managed to slide down with considerably more grace than Sam, even landing on his feet. "That was close."

"Aye." Sam stared up at the rope. It occurred to him that leaving it hanging down the side of the house was a problem, but they had left it tied very firmly around the bedstead, so they could not yank it down. Finally, he tried wadding it up and tossing it back through the window, which more or less worked, but it still clearly looked out of place. The guards were almost sure to spot it on their next go-round, and he and Nathaniel beetled hastily across the veranda roof and slid down one of the poles to the ground. From here, the garden wall was maddeningly, alluringly close. They'd have to take a running start up it, but they'd climbed taller.

"Hey, Sam," Nathaniel whispered. "Just like scaring old Grimsby, isn't it?"

Despite himself, Sam snorted. When they were thirteen, he and Nathaniel had decided that they really should be learning more at school, and taken their input to the schoolmaster, the same one who was already resentful at them for getting their parents to stop him caning them to within an inch of their lives. Some of the other pupils agreed, for that matter – not necessarily because they wanted more schoolwork, but because they were sick and tired of the rote memorization and repetition of Greek and Latin texts, all day, every day. Master Jeremiah Grimsby, however, had viewed this as the height of heresy. He had already had similar enquiries from parents, and sniffily informed them that he was not training their sons to be  _merchants,_ he was training them to be  _gentlemen,_ and anyone who had a difficulty with his pedagogical methods could withdraw their offspring immediately. The entire  _point_ of a grammar school was to prepare young men to read classical texts, the only learning they would need if they knew what was good for them, and to sit the entrance exams for Oxford and Cambridge – even delinquent youths in this miserable provincial backwater of Georgia should aspire to such sacrosanct halls of learning. He had no intention of teaching them anything else whatsoever, and good day to you, sir.

Thus, Sam and Nathaniel had taken matters into their own hands. Knowing that Grimsby happened to be as superstitious as an old sailor, they dressed up in bedsheets and flour paste, snuck into his house in the dead of night, and when the startled schoolmaster appeared in his nightclothes to see what was the matter, swooped at him, shrieking like banshees. Grimsby himself had screamed like a small girl and rushed from the house, arms over his head, whereupon the very next day he announced that he was leaving the godforsaken Colonies and going directly back to England. A fortnight later, the grammar school got a new master, who was much more open to teaching the boys a broader range of subjects (Sam had been delighted at his success at first, but deeply regretted it when he had to learn algebra). Easy as pie, really.

Sam was quite sure that his family knew it was him, but they had been too busy laughing themselves silly to even think of punishment. Finally, his dad, still chuckling, told him that that had been a very Jones way of handling things, to be sure, and while he admired the initiative, he had probably better not do it again. But aye, overthrowing a tyrannical schoolmaster was not bad.

Now, Sam and Nathaniel reached the garden wall, backed up a few paces, and took a running start, hurtling themselves up, up, and halfway across. They caught smartly across the top, legs dangling down one side and arms down the other, and kicked hard, just as Sam heard running footsteps from just around the house, and turned cold in terror. The next second, there was a blaze of lanterns and shouting. "They're escaping!  _They're escaping!"_

Sam kicked madly, vest snagged on the trailing ivy, just as he saw the men raising rifles to their shoulders. A blast went off directly overhead – they weren't shooting to kill, but they did clearly intend to hurt him enough to stop him moving – and then another. He grabbed Nathaniel's arm and hauled as hard as he could, pulled them free, and they both crashed down in the thick grass on the other side of the wall. Then, fueled by sheer panic, they bolted to their feet and ran.

They managed to make it into the creeping trees on the far side, the thick, tangled jungle greenery, shouts echoing from Gold's mansion and the front gate opening on a group of a dozen well-armed men, fanning out in all directions. Sam gulped a wheezing breath, then turned around for Nathaniel, who had unaccountably stopped. "What are you doing? We have to keep going!"

"Sam…" Nathaniel stared back at him, his freckles showing starkly on his white face. "Sam, I think they…"

Sam's heart turned a wild backflip in his chest. He could see a slow, spreading crimson stain on Nathaniel's shirt, just under his ribs, where one of the shots that must have been intended to wound him had found much more serious purchase. "No," he said reflexively, not knowing what he was saying. "No, it's fine, you're fine, come on." He pulled Nathaniel's arm over his shoulders. "Come on, you're fine, don't look at it. We have to go a little farther."

Nathaniel clutched onto him, gulping in pain, as Sam heaved him along, not nearly as fast as before. They dodged and darted through the thick black scrub, hearing things rustling and slithering, Sam dearly hoping there wasn't some deadly viper that liked to make its nest here (though it seemed like an appropriate neighbor for Gold). He could still hear the guards yelling, but they had apparently spotted someone else who they had taken for Sam, and made off in the wrong direction. There was nothing here – for a few minutes, at least – but the shirring of crickets and nightbirds and the faint bone-glow of the rising moon. Nathaniel stumbled to a halt, shivering, and went to his knees, pulling Sam down with him like a lead weight. "I… I can't."

"You're fine." Sam's voice sounded barely like his own, something small and strange. "Here, let's put some pressure on it, we'll…"

He tore a piece of cloth off his shirt, but there was too much blood to do any real good, and he could feel Nathaniel's pulse skipping and hopping threadily under his hands. There was nothing but his terror, screaming in his head, blank and unyielding as a brick wall. This was his friend, his best friend, he was not letting him die in some stupid jungle in Barbados, after he had talked Nathaniel into going along with this plan in the first place. "Hey. Nathaniel. Nathaniel, think about Geneva, okay? We're gonna get home and she's gonna see you, and she'll be really impressed by all your adventures, and… she'll kiss you, or something. She'll definitely kiss you. You've liked her forever, so – so yeah. Think about that."

"Sam…" Nathaniel's head fell back heavily into the crook of his elbow. His eyes were wide and frightened. "Sam, I don't think I'm going to…"

"No," Sam said. "You're wrong, you're definitely going to see her." The cloth slipped in his shaking fingers. He needed more, so he tried to tear off more of his shirt, but the blood was starting to pool wet and red in the ground, a slow, seeping trail. "You're going to be fine, Nathaniel, I said I was getting you home, you… you have to. You have to come home with me."

Nathaniel kept shivering. The night was thick and warm and muggy, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I don't," he gulped. "Sam, I'm scared. Sam. Sam?"

"I'm here, all right?" Sam grabbed his friend's clammy hand, the fingers curling reflexively against his. "Nathaniel, I'm here, I'm not going to let you – Nathaniel?"

His friend's eyes were reflecting the stars. "Sam," he whispered. "How about you… kiss my sister instead… all right?"

"Nathaniel?" Sam cupped his head, turning it toward him. "Nathaniel?"

No answer.

"Nathaniel?" His voice cracked, even as he could see it, see it and did not want in the least to believe, could not process, could not understand with what his eyes were telling him. He shook Nathaniel, as if that was going to help, but there was nothing. He fumbled at his wrist – there was a pulse there, there was still a pulse, he wasn't –

After a moment, Sam realized that the pulse was his, hammering in his fingers so hard that he had taken it for Nathaniel's, but he still didn't stop. He held a hand over his mouth. Nothing. There was that trick that sailors did sometimes, compressing the chest and breathing into a man who looked to have drowned – but was that only for drowning? Would it work, would it –

Sam rolled Nathaniel onto his back and tried to think how the compressions had worked. He shoved with both hands, but felt only an unpleasant slackness, no quiver or response in what, moments ago, had been living flesh.  _He's dead, he's dead. He's dead, Sam, you killed him._

No.

_No._

_Gold killed him._

A strange, eerie lightness came over him then, something burning in him from head to toe, hot and black and roaring. He felt almost as if he was standing aside from his body, watching it move without his volition, moving more strongly and purposefully than he ever had before. Saw more men below, starting up the slope, and something in Samuel James Jones snapped.

He plunged down the hillside, intent and unerring as a crossbow bolt, just in time to meet the men as they looked up and saw him. They seemed to be moving in slow motion, foolish, hindered, helpless. Sam tore the rifle out of the first man's hands, swung it like a quarterstaff, and cracked it over his skull hard enough to make him stagger. Then he twisted away from the attempted grab of the second one, snatched his shortsword out of the scabbard, and drove it forward with all the weight of a skinny twenty-year-old lad behind it, up under the breastbone with a horrible slithering, ripping, gutting stab, and didn't stop until it emerged out the back.

The man staggered backwards, then fell hard, and did not move or get up. A third one was pelting up behind, and Sam swung the rifle to his shoulder, sighted down it – had a mad memory of shooting at Jack back in St. Augustine, he was a good shot, and yet he'd managed not to hit anyone throughout that entire campaign – and fired.

The man went down like a puppet that had had its strings cut, half his head gone, as Sam snatched up the rifle from the second soldier and shot the first man he'd hit, who seemed to be struggling to recollect himself for another attack. Then he tried to pull the shortsword out of the dead soldier, but it was stuck fast, more glutinous black blood oozing out every time he pulled, and there were more men coming. They'd find their dead fellows –  _three dead men, I killed three men, I killed them –_ and then they'd make sure there were no mistakes with him. Gold might not want him dead, but that might not matter, if they saw what –

There was still one more rifle, and Sam grabbed it, slinging it over his back, as well as the sword from the first soldier, and his ammunition bandolier and baldric. Then he turned around and ran like absolute damnation.

He lost track of how long he struggled through the brush, the rifle sometimes catching on low-hanging branches, running, tears on his face, stinging his lips, burning salt, almost blinding him. He had a lunatic impulse to go back, to retrace his steps and see if Nathaniel had woken up yet, but he knew that was impossible.  _He's dead, you saw him die in your arms, he's dead, he's not coming back._ The shouts began to grow fainter, as well as the light from the mansion, as Sam tore deeper into the Barbados wilderness. He didn't stop, even as a stitch stabbed him mercilessly in the side.  _It'll be a different sort of stab, if you don't –_

And then, head still down, churning and plowing, he ran very hard into someone, who caught him by the arms and reeled back. Sam snatched reflexively for the shortsword, and almost got it clear, before he looked up and recognized the eyes beneath the black cloth that otherwise obscured the face.  _"You!"_

"What are you – " Jack tried to grab him, to hold him still, but Sam fought like a cornered bear, until even Jack had to give it up. "There were gunshots at the governor's mansion, I was just – I saw them coming out, it looked like they were after you, I drew them off, the fuck did you – "

"Oh, the fuck did I do, all right!" Sam snarled. Somewhere in some very, very far distant part of his head, he supposed he should be grateful that Jack had been the one to divert his pursuers, but that did not matter. Nothing mattered. "Decided to run off and try to kill Gold, so he'd try to hurt me, so I decided to risk – and then Nathaniel – this is  _your fault! Your fault! Your fault!"_

Even as completely beside himself as he was, he knew he couldn't shout, and kept his voice to a withering hiss, half tempted to kill Jack too, right there. But instead it was only his fist that he swung, and Jack blocked it, but without the usual mocking flippancy. "Jesus bloody Christ," he said, almost sounding genuinely concerned. "What  _happened?"_

"They killed Nathaniel, you son of a bitch." Sam wrenched his other arm free and managed to hit Jack this time, with a satisfying crunch that made him utter a  _whoof_ and take a few steps backward. "They killed Nathaniel, and if you hadn't run off like a complete fucking arsehole and made Gold mad, this wouldn't have – don't worry, I hate you again! If that's what you wanted to achieve, well, good  _fucking_ job, you sodding shithead wanker!  _Fuck you!"_

Jack looked rather blindsided, but he recovered quickly, catching Sam's flailing fists, prisoning his arms tightly against his body, and marching him further into the underbrush, toward a small opening in the side of a rock – a shallow cave, where he had evidently been hiding out. Even as they reached it, Sam felt his surge of rage-fueled violence deserting him, felt withered and crumpled up and twisted like an old piece of paper, and his legs gave out. He hit the dirt, lay on his back, and felt too drained to even cry. He stared at the vine-draped ceiling, wishing with all his heart to just wink out of existence on the spot.

Jack hesitated, evidently waiting to see if there were going to be any more attempts to attack him. When there weren't, he unpinned the cloth from his face and shook out his tangled hair, then sat down a cautious distance away. Sam took no notice of him. His entire body felt enveloped in a choking haze, a shimmering unreality, as if he was floating in the ether.  _Nathaniel's dead. Nathaniel's dead._ He wanted to kill more of Gold's men, wanted to kill all of them, the blood of the one he had stabbed still sticky on his hands. Saw his dad's face floating in front of him.  _A very Jones way of handling things. Told me not to do it again after Grimsby. Probably never even thought it would be like this._

Sam lay there, lost in depthless misery, for what felt like hours. He was vaguely aware of Jack moving around, apparently to make sure none of the guards found the cave, but still didn't care. Finally, something nudged him, and a corked skin hit the dirt next to his ear. "Drink some water," Jack suggested, almost gently. "It's cold."

"I don't want water." Sam curled onto his side like a shrimp, determined to shut out the world and everything that went with it, Jack bloody Bellamy chief of all. He didn't know if he would hit Jack again, or if he would break down on his shoulder (assuming Jack would even permit such an outlandish thing) and he was determined not to crack like that, in front of him. "Go away."

Jack paused, then sat down next to him. "I'm sorry about your friend."

"Stuff it up your arse."

"I…." Jack stopped. "I suppose I deserved that."

"Yeah." Sam remained curled up, feeling hot tears leaking sideways down his face, afraid his voice was going to break again. The words were on his tongue that he wished Jack was the one to die, not Nathaniel, but he couldn't quite utter them. "Yeah, you fucking did."

He was trying to make Jack snap back at him, as usual, as it seemed much easier to bear than any misbegotten pity or sympathy, anything that might come close to touching the vast, ragged hole inside him. But Jack still didn't bridle. Instead after a moment, he said, "Sam, I'm… it's not an excuse, and I don't want to make this about me. But I'm just really not good at caring for people, at letting them in. My first instinct is always to push them away and run. It's… never mind. But because of that, you lost someone you cared about a great deal, and I have to reckon with that. I did you wrong, I did you both wrong, and I'm sorry."

Sam still didn't answer. He shook silently, keeping his face turned away, wanting Jack to shut up, wanting to tell him that he did not forgive him and never would. He wanted to cry, but was afraid he'd never stop. He felt five bloody years old again. He wanted his mum.

And yet, none of this came out. He kept lying there like a dead thing, and after another pause, Jack slowly let himself down onto the ground next to him. Slowly, giving Sam time to move away, he reached out, draped his arm over Sam's side, and rolled him over to face him. Did nothing else, just stayed there, offering what small solace he could by his presence.

Sam thought, once more, about pushing him away or punching him. But he didn't. He edged over, put his face in Jack's chest, took a raw, hiccupping breath, and then without another word or sound, broke down.

He cried for what felt like bloody forever, shaking and sniffing, still refusing to let himself make a sound, embarrassed enough even though nobody was watching. Jack didn't say anything, just patted his back now and again, with a "shh" or a "there you go." Finally, Sam made himself stop, eyes glued shut, still unmoving, feeling as if he'd been beaten with a troll's club. The world was fragmenting, turning dark, and much as he thought he never would again, he was slipping under into the soft ocean of sleep. He closed his eyes, and was lost to the world.

He had swirling, murky, shattered dreams, woke up and dropped under again, remembered nothing at all for far too short a time, and then finally stirred again with the warmth of morning sunlight on his face, dappling green and gold through the trees. For a moment he was confused, until memory hit in a grisly rush. He wanted to shrivel in his skin and try desperately to return to blissful unconsciousness, but there was also something different in him, sharper, harder, clearer, as if he knew now exactly what he needed to do, and there would be no peace until he had. He sat up slowly, cramped and sore, and hissed as he tried to stretch his legs.

Sam was occupied in working out his various kinks when the vines rustled, and Jack appeared, carrying a loaf of bread and jug of ale that he had had definitely stolen. But Sam was – surprisingly – hungry again, and he scoffed down his share without complaint, neither of them talking but both letting the tentative silence go on. Then Jack said, "It'll be tricky, but I think I can get us across the island and find some sort of boat. Then we can – "

"No." Sam's voice felt hoarse and thick, tearing out of him like a rusty nail up his chest, and he coughed. "No, I'm not leaving Barbados."

Jack looked at him oddly. "Wasn't that the whole point of your escape?"

"Aye." Sam scuffed at the dirt. "Yesterday."

"Sam, listen, I know everything seems a bit… heightened right now, but – "

"Why are you complaining? You were the one who tried it in the first place." Sam felt almost good, in a twisted bloody sort of way, the strength of purpose, of clarity, of destiny surging through him. He knew what had to be done now, to protect his family once and for all, to prove his own worth, to avenge his friend. If he could not bring Nathaniel home, he would do the next best thing. "I'm going to kill Robert Gold."

* * *

Liam did not sleep for the rest of the night. He went back to Regina's cabin and lay down next to her, at which she stirred, rolled over, and wanted him to give her the full details of his ordeal over the last few weeks, so she knew exactly how much to pay Lady Fiona and Billy back for when they caught up to them. Grateful though Liam obviously was to be reunited with his wife, he did not feel up to giving her the blow-by-blow, and did not think it mattered anyway. If they were going to Barbados after the Gold siblings, there would be plenty of payback on every side, and he felt more hollow than happy at the thought. All this time, he had thought that if he could just see Killian, could explain, could somehow make it right… but all he had gotten was his brother all but disowning him, at least temporarily. Aye, he had made a mistake lying to Jim about his father, but… with it there in front of him, when the only way that was left to him to care for Killian was such as this, when he might never have known at all if not for this twist of fate. He supposed dully that he should fix it, but he had no idea how, and he was just so bloody tired. If it was just going to make Killian angrier at him, it hardly seemed worth the effort.

He finally dozed off soon before dawn, and had just done so when the morning bells of the  _Nautilus_ sounded, waking him straight back to reality. It was certainly more a pleasant one than his recent past, and he was ravenous enough to eat an ox, so he dragged himself out of bed and dressed. Regina was waiting for him, watching him tenuously. "Liam? Are you… did they…"

"No lasting damage," Liam assured her, trying to sound hearty. "I think the most punishment I took was diving overboard to get to you. They're a matched pair of bloody schemers, and I think Lady Fiona would have hurt me if she could get away with it, but she still needed me intact."

Regina's lips went thin. "I am going to kill that woman. Slowly."

"Be my guest." Liam grimaced as his morning aches and pains made themselves known, even more emphatically than usual. God, he felt a thousand years old. "I suppose we can draw straws for the others."

"I'm quite sure Killian feels qualified to handle them himself." The stiffness in Regina's tone clearly hinted that relations with the younger Jones had been frosty even before her husband's miraculous restoration. "He's half blinded by old vengeance for Gold already. It won't take much to get him haring after him again, if we do go to Barbados like this."

"Aye." Liam had thought of that, and a few other things, in the sleepless wee hours. "You and I both know we need to stop the wretched trio of them – Gold, Lady Fiona, and Billy – but I don't want to ask Nemo and his crew to unwarrantedly take on that burden for us, and we need to get word to the rest of the family that we're together and safe. They've no doubt been worrying ever since Killian – "

"Ah, yes." Regina's lips went thin. "I forgot. We need to do what's right for Killian. I had to worry about you for weeks, why not just let them – "

"Because we do," Liam said stubbornly. "Besides, could be we can kill two birds with one stone. They have family contacts on Nassau – Emma's brother works there, or at least I think he does, I'll ask to be sure. He can contrive some way to send a letter to them, and since there are so many people currently sniffing around for Skeleton Island, you can bet a few of them are passing through there. We might learn a thing or two. It's much closer than Barbados, and perhaps we can drop Killian off to await a ride home, if it works out. Otherwise – "

"Returning Captain Hook to that place? I can imagine that would go wonderfully."

"Aye, well." Liam wanted to think about that later. "Let's go find Nemo."

Regina still looked dubious, but decided that they should not be bickering so soon after their reunion, and took his arm, following him into the fine silver mist that shrouded the  _Nautilus'_ deck. They managed to locate her captain in short order, and after a brief chat, Nemo agreed it was considerably more sensible to make for Nassau. "My men and I are, of course, willing to assist if need be," he added. "But indeed, it is not the wisest of decisions to simply sail up to Robert Gold's lair by oneself, unaware of whatever trap or snare has been laid beforehand."

"Aye." Liam reached over to clasp the other captain's arm in gratitude, turned to go, then stopped. "One more thing. Should we possibly… not tell my brother?"

Nemo regarded him thoughtfully. "So you have not mended fences, I take it."

"No." Liam looked down. "Not exactly."

"I do not believe in deliberate deception," Nemo said, after a moment. "If your brother asks where we are bound, I will tell him. But if you fear he will take it badly, perhaps you should return and speak to him first."

"We tried that last night. It didn't…" Liam stopped. "I don't know. I just… maybe we've both made too many mistakes by now. Maybe we should just… leave each other be."

"If that is the decision you come to, it is, of course, yours to make." Nemo inclined his head. "But I must say, I would find it terribly tragic, especially when in my experience, the only time a man stops making mistakes is when he is dead, and despite everything, neither you or your brother are yet. You are both here, in the same place, for the first time in years. It is to be expected that the first hours are deeply difficult. But – if nothing else, because we still have some time before we reach Nassau – perhaps you can try again."

Regina made a faint skeptical noise in her throat. "Liam doesn't owe Killian any more effort. He's tried and tried. Killian is the one who threw it back in his face."

"Killian was by to speak to me earlier," Nemo said gently. "He said nearly the same thing as your husband, and I turn told the same to him. I realize that the pair of you are not much younger than me, and forgive my presumption if you must, but you have been brothers without a father for a very long time. Sometimes it is good to have someone else to mediate."

Liam started to answer, then stopped, throat feeling thick. He wasn't sure he felt up to another confrontation with Killian just at the moment, and he wanted to see about breakfast first, but the idea that he – even for a short while – did not have to be both brother  _and_ father to him was almost absurd. He always had been, for a long as he could remember. Could not forget the dual role, the knowledge that while he could play with Killian as a brother could, he also had to retain the father's authority to correct, to guide, to control. Structure and discipline were the best ways he knew of to show his love, to keep them out of trouble, to keep them alive. It had been wise, solid, reasonable. But Killian, as Liam had always known, was not fundamentally a logical or a reasonable creature. He could be, but only secondarily. Everything else was driven before his passions, his emotions, his deep-rooted feeling, and perhaps, for bloody once, what he needed was not the parent and the leash and to be told what he  _should_ do. Liam knew he was guilty of that, knew it had been hard to change. But they were both grown men and then some. Leave that old part, that father part, where it should lie. Acknowledge what it had done for them, and go on.

After a pause, he kissed Regina on the cheek and moved off, heading to the galley to get a bite to eat, and then going in search of Killian. The  _Nautilus_ was not tremendously large, and he found him up on the stern, staring over the misty waves and letting the morning wind blow in his face. At the sight of Liam, he glanced up almost warily, as if braced for an accusation. After a pause, he said politely, "Good morning, brother."

"Good morning." Liam leaned on the rail next to him. He struggled to think of some way to begin, not even sure of what he meant to say, until at last what he came out with, rather abruptly, was, "We're sailing for Nassau. Your brother-in-law works there, doesn't he?"

"What?" Killian blinked. "Charles? Yes, but – I thought we were sailing for Barbados."

"We're not. Not yet." Liam would have cared once about how Killian took this news, what ideas he might come up with, whether he felt it to be a betrayal, but just now, he didn't. "At least, Regina and I aren't. We're going to stop over in Nassau, figure a few things out, then go after Gold and Fiona sensibly. But if you want to rush after him, don't expect me to stop you."

Killian blinked again. "Li, you sure you're feeling all right?"

"Better than I have in a while, when it comes to you." Liam turned to look at him. "You're right, you know. It's not my job to tell you what to do, or to take on your responsibility, not any more. I think it's a fucking stupid idea to charge in blindly for vengeance on him, but I can't stop you doing it, if you decide on it. Either way, it's your choice. Not a damn thing to do with me."

Killian looked completely stunned, as Liam had never, that either of them could recall, so bluntly announced that Killian could do whatever he pleased, and he did not intend to intervene one way or the other. After a moment, he admitted, "Well, that's not what I expected you to say."

Liam grunted. "Good. Think it's about bloody time the both of us stopped being so fucking predictable."

"Aye." Killian glanced up, very wryly. "Which I suppose that means it's time for me to do my part. You're right, it's a fool idea to go after Gold with no thought for my family or anything else. A few days on Nassau to get our heads together – and find out where Emma and the rest are – isn't the worst thing in the world. We'll have to be careful, though. I don't know how much the bloody place remembers me, and I don't want to find out the hard way."

"Aye." Liam looked at him sidelong. "I meant what I said. About doing this together. You know that, don't you? But it can't be the way it was, for either of us."

"No," Killian said. "It can't. And we've been apart for such a long time, we don't have a clue who the other actually is anymore, we're just… Liam, I…" He seemed to be struggling with the words. "I know you don't have to, that's the entire point, but… do you think you could forgive me? One more time? For being such an utter idiot?"

Liam felt something both like laughter and tears in his throat. "Killian," he said. "I've already forgiven you for everything you could ever do, and always have. So aye, I will. Only, however, if you can also forgive me."

Killian looked at him, startled, still – despite the liberal silver in his hair, the laugh lines around his eyes – the boy who was shocked to learn that his adored elder brother could ever do anything wrong. "Yes," he said convulsively, as if despite all his anger, he still did not have to think about it for a moment. "Yes, of course."

They stood there facing each other for a moment longer, then stepped forward and properly hugged, as they had last night but with a deeper, truer acknowledgment, an apology on both their parts, an awareness that things were not yet mended, but they were both genuinely willing to try. They stepped back with coughs and harrumphs, but Liam put his hand against Killian's face, properly examining him by the light of day, not just the stolen glimpses he had had in the dark of the night. "You've aged well," he said at last. "I'm still the better-looking one, though."

Killian scoffed. "In your dreams, old man."

They looked at each other, then laughed, and at last, Liam felt the tilted fulcrum tip slowly back toward center, the smallest hint that things might actually be – well, not normal, as he had no idea what their new normal was, and their previous normal had to be soundly forgotten. But perhaps they could work out something else instead, and while he had no idea what that might look like, or how they would get there, Liam was at least willing to try.

The wind kept up hard for the next several days, and with the  _Nautilus'_ much greater speed compared to a traditional square-rigger, they made superlative time – indeed, Liam was of the opinion that if he ever lost his mind and decided to take up seafaring as a career again, he would have to get himself a junk. The sails could be angled directly into the wind with much greater maneuverability and control, rather than being constricted to a certain radius of degrees off it, and were far easier to change, reef, and set. The crew was trained to a precision, and Nemo certainly did not need to rely on flogging or deprivation of rations or any other method used by captains who meant to make men fear them, if that was the only way he could command their obedience. He had the three of them to dinner a few times as well, and the conversation ran late, the company good. If one could forget the start to it, it almost felt like an unexpected holiday.

There were, of course, other benefits to being reunited with one's wife after a separation, but as the bamboo walls were thin, and Liam did not want the entire  _Nautilus_ congratulating him on his conjugal fortunes, they had to be quiet. That night as they were lying next to each other afterwards, Regina's arm draped on his stomach, she said, almost shyly, "Liam?"

"Eh?"

"Do you think…" She stopped for a moment, then went on. "Do you think we might consider moving back? From France, I mean? I know we have our house there, and our lives, but… it is far away. Killian's still an idiot, but if you've started to at least mend fences with him… and there are the children. Well, at least Henry, and his family. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to be closer."

"No, it wouldn't." Liam had to chew the idea over. He too had started to consider that it might be time to leave France and return to the Americas, that he did not want to go back to their isolation, even if Killian and the rest didn't want to stay in continued touch when this unfortunate episode was over. Still, leaving a place they'd lived for over twenty years, where they knew how things worked, where they had their routines and their niches, was daunting.  _Best hope we live through it, old folk that we are, and then worry about where to spend our sunset years._

They did not discuss it for the next several days, but finally, at the end of the week, Nemo told them that they should be arriving in Nassau that evening. This was assuredly the fastest Liam had ever crossed the Atlantic, and he wondered if he would have to make one more journey back, or two. That, however, was a long way off as yet, and he was more concerned with what was in front of them. He had in fact never been to Nassau before, and he could not deny that he was bloody curious, but this was not a sightseeing lark. It was likely considerably more bizarre for Killian, and as both of them had noted, the possibility of things going sideways was quite high if they let their guard down. As such, they would have to be inconspicuous, and even for Nassau, the  _Nautilus_ was conspicuous. They would have to anchor down the coast, then row in.

Killian watched New Providence Island take shape, from just a hazy blue line on the horizon, to a more solid outline, to a real and solid piece of land, with a strange, abstracted expression on his face, and jumped when Nemo called to him that they were ready to set off. He, the Jones brothers, and a few members of his crew would go ahead to scout things out, and return to fetch Regina (who was annoyed at being left behind, but grudgingly aware that they had to take this carefully) when they were sure that everything was as it should be. Killian and Liam climbed down into the boat after Nemo and his men, slid the oars into the locks, and started to scull smoothly off across the sunset water. Killian was somewhat awkward rowing with a hand and a hook, but he had lived with it a long time, as they all had now with their scars, and he managed.

They eased around the headland and into the harbor, Killian's eyes fixed on the waterfront, the merchant ships instead of raiders and reavers, the Union Jack flying in place of the pirates' black. "Bloody hell," he said faintly. "This is… well."

"Looks different?" Liam asked.

"Aye, in some ways, but… not as much, otherwise." Killian shook his head, as if to clear the phantoms from it, and they clipped the rest of the way ashore, tied up at the quays, and stepped out. He quickly undid his hook from its brace, clearly not wanting to advertise it, and he and Liam set off up the street after Nemo. They'd have to ask for the whereabouts of Charles Swan, as Killian admitted that he did not know where his brother-in-law lived, and see if he had a room for the night. This sounded like an excellent idea to Liam. The  _Nautilus_ was comfortable enough, but he was ready to not be moving for a bit. A gentleman of nearly sixty had that prerogative.

Most of the marketplace was closing down for the night, but they managed to find someone who pointed them in Charles' direction – though not without a faint odd look, as if they might be up to no good. This was strange, but they ignored it, heading toward the side street, and up to the indicated residence, a half-timbered townhouse. Killian raised his fist, and knocked.

There was a pause, then footsteps. Just as Liam was wondering if they would have time to row back and fetch Regina before nightfall, the door opened. "Charlotte? Did you forget – "

At that, everybody froze, not least Killian. This was due to the fact that Charles Swan had not, in fact, opened the door. Rather, it was Charles Swan's elder sister.

Emma stared at them for a very long moment, clearly not believing her eyes, and then launched herself at Killian without further ado, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him senseless, kissing him again, kissing him on both cheeks, and then only belatedly realizing that they had company. She blinked, looking dazed, arms still around Killian and toes dangling.  _"Liam?"_

"Hello," Liam said to his sister-in-law, with a wry grin. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

Emma realized her mouth was open, so she shut it, got down, and managed to shake his hand cordially, clearly exploding with questions. But she also clearly did not want to let go of Killian for more than a few moments, in case he vanished again, and as they had a great deal of catching up to do, Liam volunteered to go find a boarding house for the night. Emma insisted, however, that he should come in, as she obviously had just as many questions as to how on earth they had appeared here together. "The house is full, but we can probably manage to fit you in too, Liam – how on  _earth –_ "

"Ah," Liam said. "Regina's here too, back on Captain Nemo's ship. Is it – ?"

Emma paused, as relations between her and Regina had never been entirely warm, but it only took her a moment to nod. "Yes, of course Regina is welcome. She's family, after all. I don't  _believe_  – " She turned to Nemo, lip trembling despite herself. "Thank you. Thank you for bringing them – for bringing him – back to me. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Nemo said graciously. "Liam, you go on in with the family. The men and I will go back to fetch your wife."

Liam nodded his thanks, and the three of them headed inside for a most unexpected family reunion. Emma's adopted parents, Captain Flint and his wife, were there, as well as Charlie, a young girl who appeared to be named Cecilia – and, as he came around the corner and his jaw dropped, a young man who had to be, could only be, Henry.  _"Uncle Liam?"_

"Hey, lad," Liam said gruffly, feeling something sting his eyes. "It's me."

Henry paused, then rushed over and hugged him so soundly that Liam felt his ribs creak, and he did a great deal of huffing and harrumphing as Henry fetched out his wife, Violet, and his children, Richard and Lucy, who were quite surprised to meet their great-uncle for the first time. They were just engaged in starting some of their numberless questions – Cecilia, it seemed, was the niece of a young woman named Charlotte, who had just gone out on some errand, and Liam was still not quite sure how she fit in – when there was a second knock on the door, and Nemo and his men returned with Regina. She entered hesitantly, as if expecting to be thrown out, until she saw Henry. They stared at each other for a long moment, then without a word, went into each other's arms and hugged for nearly a minute.

Regina's eyes were quite wet indeed by the time they let go, Nemo and company politely bowed themselves out, and they somehow managed to cram together in Charlie's thoroughly overtaxed dining room and make some attempt at catching up. Liam sat next to Regina on one side and Killian on the other; Emma was sitting in his lap and looking as if she had no intention of getting off for a while. It was a fiendishly chaotic process, as everyone wanted to ask their questions first, but they finally sorted out a round-robin system, and more or less got up to speed.

"You're looking for Gold?" Killian said at last, frowning. "You think he's the one behind the assassination attempts from earlier? And whatever bloody else Gold does?"

"Yes." Emma looked grim. "Charlotte went back to Max's, in fact – she might have something for us, I don't know. But we can't be sure if that's what we asked for, if we – "

"Well," Killian said. "That doesn't matter. Because we, in fact, happen to know where he is."

* * *

Geneva was just wondering if there was any chance of her wanting to eat something without feeling as if she would not be immediately sick afterward, if she was going to sleep, or frankly if she was going to just lose her damn mind on the spot and save everyone the trouble, when there was a considerably sharp knock on the cabin door. She wanted to ignore it, but she also knew that could potentially be a very bad idea, and she groaned, gathering herself to her feet and crossing the floor. "Aye? What do you – "

"Is it true?"

She blinked, feeling cudgeled, as she stared up at the face of Jim Hawkins – but she had never seen him look like this, dark and tense and angry, grey eyes snapping like storm clouds. She took an inadvertent step backward, even as she had no idea what he could possibly be talking about. Was this  _Jim,_ who could barely speak to her without blushing, who was always so polite and courteous, barging in to accuse her of – "Excuse me, is  _what_ true?"

He stared at her, a muscle going in his cheek. "Did your father kill my father?"

" _What?"_ Geneva seriously wondered if he had fallen and hit his head, or something else drastic. "Are you out of your mind? What would possibly possess you to even  _think_ that I would – "

Madi, by the desk, turned sharply. "Boy," she said. "Who told you that?"

"It doesn't matter, just – "

" _Who told you that?"_

It seemed to take Jim a moment to remember. "Mr. … Mr. Silver. But that's beside the point, just – "

Madi paused, then got to her feet, looking more furious than Geneva had ever seen her. She swept past her in a formidable dark rush – which she almost regretted, insofar as it left her alone with Jim, and still no idea what he was talking about. "I told you earlier, my uncle didn't kill your father, so there's no way  _my_ father would have! They were friends, remember?"

Jim stared at her, face white, wanting to believe it but no longer taking her word for granted, as he had back in Bristol. "Are you sure? Your father is Captain Hook, after all. Feared from one corner of the Caribbean to the other. Is killing one man, even a friend, so far beyond him?"

"My father  _was_ Captain Hook," Geneva said sharply. She liked Jim, but she was not about to settle for him bad-mouthing Daddy, especially over something he probably hadn't even done. "He changed. He's not like that anymore. And I told you not to listen to Silver!"

"I don't think he was lying about this." Jim whirled on his heel. "And apparently you knew that Eleanor Rogers is hiding aboard the ship. Is that why you kissed me? Just to make sure I wouldn't go down there and find her? I'm just a distraction, is that it?"

"Are you – " Geneva was almost genuinely afraid of him. Not that she thought he would hit her, or even try, but she simply had no way to reckon with any of this. "How do you know about Eleanor?" she blurted out. "Did you – "

"I stumbled across her and Mr. Silver talking." Jim clenched his fists, trying to get hold of himself, but he was clearly still too angry for that. "What's in the hold?"

 _He doesn't know about Hands._ Geneva felt a thrill of terror sear down her spine – both that he was still in the dark, and that he might go to find out, no matter what she or anyone said to him. "Jim, listen to me, this is dangerous, this is  _bloody_ dangerous, don't go trying anything – "

"What else aren't you telling us?" Jim stared at her down his nose. The height difference had been enjoyable when they were flirting, but it made her feel at a distinct disadvantage now. "Geneva, why can't you just – "

"What?" Geneva snapped, pride stung. "Tell you? What remote obligation do I have to tell  _you?"_

"Apparently none, if I'm your bloody plaything!" Jim roared back. "And if your father did do for mine, it wouldn't be the first time a Jones stabbed a Hawkins in the back, would it? Is that what you were planning for me, once you got bored?"

"How  _dare_ you – "

At that, there was more sharp rapping on the door. "Geneva?" Thomas shouted. "Geneva, what's going on? What's this about Eleanor Rogers?"

Geneva clenched her fists, swore as violently as she could (under her breath) and did some whirling of her own, jerking the door open. "What?"

Thomas beckoned with his chin toward Madi and Silver, who were standing on the deck shouting at each other – or rather, Madi was shouting, as Silver was holding up both hands and trying to calm her down, but Madi was having none of it. The crew was starting to filter up and stare, drawn by the ruckus, and all Geneva could think of was Hands with his barrel of black powder in the hold. How much of this could he hear – did he know this meant at least one of the stowaways had been discovered, was he about to –

"Uncle Thomas," she said weakly. "We have a problem."

"I did note that." Thomas raised an eyebrow at the sight of her and Jim, but with considerable concern. "My dear, what on  _earth_ is going…?"

As that was the first time he'd called her  _my dear_ again since their argument, Geneva felt a brief, sharp pang. She fumbled for words to explain, found none, and had to turn away from Jim's hot, baleful stare. "We… may have a few stowaways."

Thomas frowned at her, but at least he seemed more worried than angry. He took her arm protectively, as if to steer her away from the fuming Jim, and yet Geneva wanted no part of what Madi and Silver were currently having it out over. She dug in her heels, even knowing she had to tell Thomas, she had to tell someone – oh God, what was this,  _what –_

And just then, she was aware of an odd hush falling, a slow and deliberate thump on the ladder, and felt terror close cold around her throat like a garrote. As a shadow fell in the twisting torchlight, long and leering, and Geneva Elizabeth Jones felt her mind go blank.

Israel Hands stepped off the ladder, quite deliberately, staring around at the gathered crew of the  _Rose_. He had Eleanor by the hair with one hand, shoving her in front of him like a human shield, and a very large pistol in the other, and he stumped forward, the hollows of his eyes looking dark as a skull's, as the crowd drew back. "Seems to me," he rasped, "that someone can't follow some  _simple – fucking – instructions._ You agree, Captain Jones? Feels all of this could have been avoided, wouldn't you say?"

"Hands." Silver threw out an arm to put Madi behind him. "Israel Hands."

"Never could fool you. John fucking Silver, the clever cogs." Hands pointed his pistol around leisurely, clearly enjoying watching everyone duck, as Geneva felt Thomas grip her arm tightly enough for it to hurt. "And you," Hands added to him. "The one who had a go at me back in Bristol, oh yes, I remember you. So brave to take me on if I'm not drunk?"

"Let me go," Eleanor begged. "I'll talk to them, I can sort it out, I can – "

"You?" Hands snorted. "Like hell anyone'd trust  _you_ for a fucking thing, Woodes Rogers' whore. You really think I needed you, we were going to have a deal? You still throw your lot in with anyone who comes along, you think it'll get what you want, and just as before, it's going to fuck you over. All of you, in fact." He pointed his pistol at the capstan, and with another surge of complete, shrieking animal terror, Geneva wondered if that was where he had concealed the second barrel of powder. Shoot it, and send them up as a fireball on the instant. She had to jump in the way, she had to stop it – she would likely take the bullet herself, but if that was better than condemning the  _Rose_ and everyone on it to death –

"You," Madi whispered, staring at Eleanor. "Of course you did this to us. Again."

"I didn't want – " Eleanor twisted and thrashed, trying to free herself. "Madi – I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I just wanted to see my son again, I didn't – "

"Yes," Madi breathed. "So did I. Every day since all of you killed him."

Eleanor flinched. She looked truly stunned, pulling her hair loose from Hands' grip, even as he grabbed for her wrist and hauled her back. "Madi… please… your father was my friend, I just…" She seemed to run out of words. "Madi, I'm so sorry."

Madi stared back at her with the whites of her eyes reflecting the lanternlight, trembling like a spooked horse, as Silver looked completely anguished and had nothing whatsoever to say. The silence was immense, tangible, all but physical. And then Hands raised the gun.

"That was touching," he growled. "As if you ever bloody cared. The lot of you. Didn't want this either, but if that's how it's going to be – "

" _No,"_ Eleanor screamed at him.  _"Don't –_ "

Geneva remained paralyzed an instant longer – prepared to spring –

Israel Hands pulled the trigger.


	18. XVIII

Emma woke with a start sometime in the small hours, gripped by a sudden need to make sure that Killian was still next to her. After the family moot had finally broken up quite late, they had gone upstairs, shut the door, and celebrated their reunion in a far more intimate way, repeatedly, and she was languorous and sated with sleep and sex, somewhat enjoyably sore – God, she  _was_ getting old. She fumbled across the covers in panic, until her fingers encountered the warm flesh of his left arm, the roughened end of it in place of a hand, and she surfaced enough to be aware of his comforting weight in the bed, dark-silver head sprawled in the pillow, breathing deep and slow. It was real, then. She hadn't imagined it or dreamed it. He had come back to her.

Tears of relief stung her eyes, and she knuckled them away. She settled back down, not wanting to disturb him, but, sensitive to her as ever, he stirred. "Swan?"

"I'm. . ." Emma hesitated, then snuggled closer. "I'm sorry. I just needed to make sure you were still here."

Killian made a soft sound half between a laugh and a sigh, pulling her against him and mouthing light kisses over her forehead and nose and cheek. "That I am, love. So far as I can tell."

"I know," Emma whispered, nuzzling her head against his shoulder and unable to resist one final, confirming poke that made him chuckle. He was thinner and more ragged and older-looking than when they had last seen each other, and he plainly had not had an overall good time of it, but at least he didn't appear to have been outstandingly maltreated. Not that she had any warm sentiment toward the fiends responsible – the Lost Boys would have a great deal to reckon with if she ever caught up to them, no matter if Killian had already killed Rufio. Yet now, after the euphoria of reunion, the long talk with the family followed by the wild abandon of lovemaking, all had fled away to leave just them in the darkness, and the question she did not want to ask, but had to. "Are you still mad at me?"

"What?" Killian sounded startled. "For Charlestown?"

"I. . .. yes. Before you were abducted, we were fighting, and everything we said then. . .." Emma paused. "And now we do know where Gold himself is, according to you, and we're going to have to face that again. . . I was just wondering if you still felt that I'd done wrong."

"Emma." Killian shifted her on his chest, so he could look into her eyes. "I have thought of nothing but getting back to you ever since those juvenile snotrags grabbed me and dragged me aboard that dismal boat of theirs. Nothing else has mattered. And I. . . I didn't appreciate it at the time, but I'm not sure I would have gotten to face my brother otherwise. What happened between us, we. . . we needed it. And it's making me realize how much I put aside, how much I took for granted I would do later, if I wanted, and never actually intended to. I was a selfish git, and perhaps this was the kick in the arse that I bloody needed."

Emma didn't answer at first, tidying a loose strand of hair out of his face. Then she said, "You're right, though. I shouldn't have gone off alone and tried to push everyone away, but with Charlestown. . . you know how that place is for everyone, it just made me. . . I'm sorry."

"I understand," Killian said gently. "I do, Emma. And I'm saying that between the two of us, I was the one who acted far more like an idiot, for a far longer time, and you can ask Regina if you don't believe me. So I do accept your apology, love. But I hope as well that you – and Liam – can see your way to accepting mine."

"I can't speak for Liam, but I do." Emma shifted, turned over, and settled against him, her back to his chest, as he rested his chin on her head. She pulled his arm over her, circling the stump with a finger, feeling his warm breath and the slow, comfortable thump of his heart, the slant of his legs tucked against hers – admiring how well they fit, even after close to a quarter-century of marriage. "I'm just glad you're back. I – always thought you would, that we would see each other again, but I. . . I'm relieved anyway."

"So am I." Killian planted a light kiss on her ear. "But we're not out of the woods. There's everything you were telling me about Sam and whatever that rat bastard Da Souza did to him, there's Geneva and Thomas off with Silver, there's Gideon Murray and his Jacobite friends, there's Billy and Lady Fiona hunting Skeleton Island, and there is, of course, Gold. Bloody hell, you think we throw dice to decide which one we handle first?"

"I don't want to split up again if we can help it." Emma was very devout on that point indeed. "We'll have to talk with the others tomorrow, see if we can possibly work out something for tackling all this. Finding our children, or fighting our enemies. That seems to be our choice."

Killian tugged her closer. "Hey, if we found each other again, I'm quite certain we can find them. They're both clever and resourceful and too much like the rest of us for our peace of mind, unfortunately. For example, I'm quite sure that John Silver swiftly discovered he was biting off far more than he could chew, when he decided to tangle with Geneva."

Emma laughed, somewhat painfully. "As am I. But I hope it wasn't more than she could."

There was a brief silence, both of them clearly trying not to worry themselves to distraction about Geneva and Sam, the creeping fears and the whispering phantoms harder to push away in the darkness. Then Emma said, "We should sleep. We need to think about this in the morning."

"Aye." Killian kissed the back of her neck. "It's all right, love. I won't go anywhere."

Emma tightened her grip on his arm, closed her eyes, and while it took a few moments, managed to relax. Then, slowly, she swam once more into the dark depths of slumber, and for the rest of the night, did not dream at all.

The next morning, they stirred soon after dawn, and despite the obvious urgency of getting up and attending to their manifold problems, could not resist one more round beneath the blankets, quick and intense, with a delightful furtiveness like secret lovers trying not to be caught in the barn. Emma's breath hitched as Killian gripped her left hand fiercely, pushing it over her head into the pillows, bending her back like a bow as he thrust into her with a rasping, rough possessiveness. She ran her right hand down his side, caressing and clawing, meeting his need with her own, and bit hard on her lip rather than have anyone notice what they were up to (the walls  _were_ rather thin, but then, doubtless they had guessed anyway). When they were both spent, sweaty and flushed and panting, they lay there as if their spinal columns had been removed for several moments. Then Killian groaned, rolled out of her with decided reluctance, and pushed to his feet. "Well then. Let's get on with it, shall we?"

Having gotten dressed, they made their way downstairs, still holding hands, to Charlie's kitchen. David was the only one up, and greeted them with a warm smile. "Killian. It's good to have you back with us again."

"It is, yes." Killian sat down at the table. "I think I've had enough sailing for a while, even for me, but I don't doubt we'll have more. You own a good bit of property and ships here, if we have to borrow one – "

"You'll have whatever you need," David assured him. "And I don't intend to charge you for it, either. Will your brother and his wife be returning to France? It's late in the year for another sailing, and I imagine they've likewise had all they want, but – "

"I don't know." Killian looked hesitant. "I don't think so, but Liam did say he would go after Gold with me, and I can't see him being content to just turn around, go home, and sit on his arse while the rest of us are in danger. We have quite a few reparations still to make, and I. . . I don't think I want him to go either. So I shouldn't think so."

"Good," David said. "I think that's a good decision for both of you. But either way, we're completely overstuffed here in one house, so I'll track down one of my other properties to move a few of us into. Unless – "

"I'm not sure any of us will be staying here much longer," Emma interjected. "So the accommodations are most likely the least of our concerns. But thank you."

"Of course." David looked at her steadily. "You have a wonderful family, Emma."

"I. . ." Something caught in her throat, but she nodded. "I know."

They sat there for a short while longer until Charlie's housekeeper appeared to prepare breakfast, followed by Flint and Miranda (also with the look of quiet contentment that made Emma think they had been doing some private making up of their own) and then Charlie, Liam, Regina, Henry, Violet, and the children. That made everyone, except for Charlotte, and Emma looked up in concern. "Did she not come back from Max's last night? What if something happened to her in the streets? One of Da Souza's men lying in wait to – "

"Charlotte is a tremendously capable young woman," Miranda said. "I am quite sure that nothing happened to her that she did not intend to happen."

Emma glanced at her mother in surprise, but Miranda did not appear inclined to elaborate. Indeed, they were halfway through breakfast when there was a knock on the front door, footsteps in the hall, and Charlotte appeared in the kitchen, looking somewhat windswept and fresh-faced. "I'm sorry," she said. "I hope I didn't make you worry. It got quite late, and Max didn't think it was wise for me to walk alone across the city at midnight. But I'm back, and – who are these?"

"This is Killian," Emma said. "My husband. He made it here last night, with his brother Liam, and Liam's wife, Regina. Killian, this is Charlotte Bell, Cecilia's aunt. Her husband is Jack, the one who seems to be with Sam, so we've all ended up on the same adventure."

"Mrs. Bell." Killian got courteously to his feet and bowed over her hand. "I've heard you're quite a good shot with a pistol, is that so?"

"Yes." Charlotte looked pleased. "Are you the one that was kidnapped in Charlestown, then?"

"I was, yes," Killian said wryly, "but through a complicated chain of events, very long story, I managed to escape and make it home. Now that we're all around the table again, however, it seems like the time to discuss what in blazes we're doing next."

"Max had heard some sort of rumor," Charlotte said. "About Gold. They thought he was in – Barbuda?"

"No," Killian said. "Barbados. Regina and I found it in the Navy's offices in London. He sailed to Bridgetown last year, aboard a ship captained by an M. Rogers of Bristol. No sure chance he's still there, but he always liked to have a lair. We're guessing he is."

Liam looked at him askance. "You and Regina just. . . walked into Whitehall?"

"Yes," Regina said, somewhat defiantly. "We were looking for you, and since a few officers still remembered me from Antigua, it worked rather well."

Liam looked as if he was trying to picture this, and being somewhat sad he'd missed it, even as he nonetheless had his own opinions on the advisability of strolling straight into the Admiralty, especially given the circumstances in which the Jones brothers had resigned (rather spectacularly, in Killian's case) from the Royal Navy. "Well then. Moving on. As I said, Billy and Lady Fiona are also sailing for Barbados. That seems to be the place in which we have the best chance of catching the most of our enemies together."

"Indeed," Flint said. "And this time, I'll be sure to fucking kill Billy Bones properly."

"As long as you realize," Miranda pointed out, "that he will be set on doing the same to you?"

Flint shrugged that off. "I've known that since we first got word that the big blonde bastard had resurfaced, from whatever shithole he's been squirreled down for the last twenty years."

Emma was quiet. She and Billy had, of course, been friends once, and she still wanted to think that if they came face to face, he would not be able to kill her out of hand. He had tried to make her safety a condition of his bargain with Woodes Rogers, to betray the pirates and lead the Navy to Skeleton Island after the  _Walrus,_ but she had rejected it then, and spent years living as family with Billy's mortal enemy. She knew very well that it might be necessary to kill him to save that family, but she didn't want to think about it.

"Jenny and Thomas are still off on whatever plan of John Silver's to follow Billy," Miranda said, picking up on Emma's own thoughts. "They're likely to return here at some point. Even if some of us go to Barbados, the others should stay behind to run interference."

Flint looked as if this was a job which, even with Thomas' welfare at stake, he would not be caught dead doing, not if it entailed a reunion with Silver. "I nominate Nolan," he said. "He's the one who owns Nassau now, as I have not ceased to be reminded, and has the most connections. Not suspicious at all for him to stay here, and he can also keep an eye on Henry, Violet, and the children. Charlie can help him, make up for his bungling in letting Jenny and Thomas go in the first place. The rest of us go to Barbados."

Everyone was forced to admit that this was, even and especially for Flint, a sensible plan. Sending Killian, Emma, Flint, Miranda, Liam, Regina, and Charlotte after Gold, while leaving David, Henry, Violet, Charlie, and the children on Nassau, bisected their forces fairly evenly, and applied their strengths in the correct directions. Flint had clearly given up on trying to convince Miranda to stay behind in a less dangerous spot, and did not want to be parted from her anyway. Besides, all "less dangerous" spots were relative, with one's safety not particularly assured over another, yet nonetheless, matching six senior citizens, plus Charlotte, against Gold was not a terribly wise idea. "We need help," Flint said. "We need to let me recruit a crew."

"We could ask Nemo," Liam suggested. "He did say he was willing to – "

Flint tensed.  _"Nemo?"_

"Yes." Liam looked at him, confused. "The one who brought me, Killian, and Regina back here. I suppose you didn't see him last night, but – ?"

"He's the one who pulled you off Skeleton Island, all those years ago," Killian said. "He told me."

"That was  _him?"_  Miranda looked startled. "James did mention a man named Nemo, to Thomas and I, but – I didn't realize it was that same one in Nassau now."

"There can't be many men named Nemo who sail ships called the  _Nautilus,_ and he remembered you." Killian looked at his father-in-law with a quizzical expression. "Mate, I don't think he's interested in wringing you for the whereabouts of the island – he'd have done that long ago, if so. And since he's now saved your arse  _and_ ours, it might be a bit presumptuous to ask him for another favor. But it's still safer than trying to raise a crew."

Flint looked as if it was not Nemo's potential interest in the whereabouts of Skeleton Island that concerned him, but did not, as usual, want to talk about his feelings. Instead he said, "What about Sam? Are we planning to pick him up on the way? Da Souza said he threw him into the sea near St. Kitts – that's between here and Barbados, but it's not likely he's still drifting somewhere."

"Of course we want to find him," Emma said. "And it's not out of the question, if he's already in some sort of trouble in that direction, that Gold sniffed him out and scooped him up. You know what a prize he would regard that as."

"If Gold – " Flint rose half to his feet, making the plates and teacups rattle. "If that  _bastard_ did anything to Sam, I swear – "

"We will both skin him slowly," Killian said grimly. "You have my word on that. If by some miracle, Gold's been able to resist adding to his crimes – well then, we can think of something else. But if he's taken it out on Sam, all bets are off."

Nobody had anything to say to this, even as Emma prayed more than ever that it would not be needed. She thought of something that Sam senior had said to her many years ago, that he would rather be hurt himself than watch her and Killian be tortured, and as a mother, she had always intuitively known the truth of it. She could stand Gold hurting her, if she had to – him, or any other malfeasants who might cross their path and mean them ill. But she could not bear to see him replay his campaign of destruction over Killian, or even worse, over the younger Jones, recreating every element that had led to his father's fall.  _No, not Sam, not my sweet, brave, gentle boy, you can't touch him, you can't do that to him._ Fruitlessly, she thought of Gideon Murray, back in Charlestown, and his avowed hatred of his sire. Was even Gold such a monster as to remain unmoved when confronted with his flesh and blood, his lost child? They had thought of the possibility before, but there was small chance now of popping back to the Carolinas and bringing Gideon along as a nasty surprise for his father. What with that bloodline, it would be far more trouble than it was worth.

"Sam?" Liam said, startling her from her reverie. "This would be my other nephew?"

"Aye." Emma recalled that he and Regina had never met the youngest Swan-Jones child. "He's an absolutely lovely lad, but he does have. . . a bit of a knack for trouble."

"No idea where he could have gotten that," Liam said wryly. "Well then, if nobody has any alternatives to Captain Flint's plan, I say we put it to a vote. All in favor?"

There was a pause, and then the adults more or less raised their hands in unison, some looking more keen on it than others. After all, some of them did need to stay in Nassau, and some of them did need to go to Barbados, and the delegations that Flint had proposed for each were sensible, but it was still another separation, another hazardous undertaking, with no certain victory. It was well along in fall by now, and there would be squalid winter weather to reckon with, on top of everything else. A voyage south to Bridgetown was not the longest or most unfamiliar in the world, but it was still over a thousand miles, and a confrontation with their oldest enemy awaited even if they did get there in a timely fashion. For all that they spoke of "handling" Gold as if he was a distant and mildly embarrassing relative, all of them knew better than to underestimate him. His minions had made damn near successful attempts at killing them twice already, and the danger would only increase the closer they came to the man himself. This might be the choice they had to make, to account for Thomas, Geneva, and Sam the best they could, but it was still a hard one to swallow.

Silence, until a voice said from the door, "Aunt Charlotte? Are you going to find Uncle Jack?"

Charlotte turned in her chair to smile reassuringly at her young niece, who was peering into the room anxiously. "Yes, sweetheart, I think so. You'll be staying here with Mr. and Mrs. Swan and Richard and Lucy, isn't that nice? You'll have plenty of time to play."

Cecilia considered this, then nodded bravely, scampering off as if aware she was not supposed to be listening in on the adults. Flint watched her go with sharp curiosity. "From what I can gather of your husband, he's not much the fatherly sort. He doesn't mind her, then?"

"He likes her," Charlotte said defensively. "Why all this interest in Jack, anyway?"

"Well, for one, he appears to be with my grandson – and according to that fucking wretch Da Souza, may be the only thing that saved him from a watery fate. And he's a Spanish spy, there's that small detail. But what you called him –  _Black Jack._ Given as we are on Nassau, I feel it only fair to ask. That, to say the least, is a rather pirate-sounding moniker. Is there some other association of his that we should know about?"

Charlotte hesitated. "It was a slip of the tongue."

"I don't think it was."

"James." Miranda put a hand on his arm. "If you recall, Charlotte has explained herself to my satisfaction. What with everything else, I don't think we need to resume the interrogation."

Flint, as if deciding that they had just made up and he did not want to be at odds with her so soon again, paused, then nodded. But the look in his eyes as they remained on Charlotte was not angry or suspicious, it was sad. Until Emma thought suddenly that he was not trying to sniff out a potential rival in order to destroy them, but rather that he had grasped onto some faint, wild, impossible idea, and could not, however much he wanted, dismiss it out of hand. After all. . . the use of "Black" before one's first name, and a surname that started with  _Bell. . ._ it called to mind the man that all of them had had ever more to reckon with, their vanished love, even as they were finally coming to terms with the fact that he was gone, and they must let go. But that was just a strange coincidence, unsettling but immaterial. Sam's son with his Cape Cod lover, Mariah Hallett, had died at birth, the reason he had gone back to try to plead her forgiveness, and sailed into the storm where he met his fate. They could not return to grasping at straws now.

The next order of business was to find a ship. Despite Flint's unenthusiastic response to the proposal, there was no harm in seeing if Nemo was willing to take them the rest of the way to Barbados, even if he might then justly decide that he and his crew wanted nothing to do with Gold. So Emma, Killian, and Liam went to the docks to see if they could track down some of his men, as the  _Nautilus_ was still anchored outside the harbor. It took a while, but they managed, and the sailors took them to the lodging house where Nemo was staying. "I would be happy to take you to Bridgetown," he said, upon hearing their updates. "And if it comes to it, any man of mine who agrees is welcome to back you in a confrontation with Gold, but I will not force it upon anyone who is unwilling."

"Neither would we," Killian said. "The man's a bloody demon, we won't blame anyone who'd rather not come to grips with him. I don't think it's a wise idea to take a whole army, as that's a good way to be spotted in a hurry, and I am sure he's well fortified the place against any potential invasion. The smaller the group, the better, but as it will be me, Emma, Liam, Regina, and my father-in-law, with my mother-in-law traveling with us but not along for the actual fight, and with all of us considerably over fifty, we could use some fresh blood. Charlotte Bell will be with us, but she likely doesn't want to be the sole caretaker of the feeble elderly folk."

"Indeed," Nemo agreed, with a wry smile. "As I said, any man of mine who agrees to help is yours, so that should not be a problem. We could use a few days to resupply and recollect ourselves, but we should be able to depart by the end of the week. And your father-in-law – that would be Captain Flint, would it not?"

"Aye. He. . . doesn't seem terribly chuffed about sailing with you, to be honest."

"I imagine," Nemo said, "that he fears what I might tell you of Skeleton Island, of what he said to me then, of the man he was when I took him to Philadelphia. He need not. As I said to you back in London, I remember nothing particularly enlightening, and even if I did, I would not share it without his consent – which, I sense, I would wait a long time for him to grant. At any rate, he will not have to endure me long. I had other business in the Caribbean that I meant to see done, you will recall, and while of course I do not wish to strand you on Barbados at Gold's mercy, would you take it terribly amiss if I set you down there, and then returned in due time, assuming you could not arrange other passage, to pick you up again?"

"No, of course not. You're doing us another bloody favor as it is, as I said – we won't look down our noses at you for seeing to your own interests. If you don't mind me asking, what is it? We used to know the Caribbean quite well in our day, if we could offer anything in return for what you've given us – "

Nemo considered briefly. Then he said, "My business is with a certain vodou priest, a man named Merlin, and a pair of Maroon chieftains, Ursula and Lancelot. They periodically assist me with information about where I might find men for my crew, men who need to be freed from their chains. I expect this is something you can underst – ah. You know them?"

"We – we do, yes," Emma said, blinking. "From a long time ago." She remembered Merlin, the oddly ageless-looking  _houngan_  of the Maroons' island where she and Miranda had taken refuge, and surely Liam did as well, since Ursula, then just a young girl and the daughter of the chief, had helped nurse him back to health after he was stabbed by his half-brother. Merlin had given her foreboding prophecies of the fall of Nassau and the arrival of Woodes Rogers, warned her that everyone she loved would die, and Emma felt a faint, unaccountable chill at the memory. As for Lancelot, he and Killian knew each other quite well, as Killian had saved his life back on Jamaica, Lancelot had later returned the favor with Liam, and sailed with his men on the  _Jolie Rouge,_ as well as fighting with them throughout the pirates' war _._ Ursula, however, might be a less pleasant reunion. She had ordered Killian off the island for his dishonorable treatment of her, and as far as Emma recalled, had not seemed inclined to forgive him.

Still, though. They had Gold to reckon with, and it was Nemo who would be venturing off to find the Maroons, not them. It was oddly comforting to hear that their old allies were still alive and kicking, and Emma nodded firmly. "Very well. Let us know when you're ready to go. Not to rush you, but we. . ." She trailed off, thinking of Sam. "We can't afford to wait much longer."

"I understand," Nemo said. "It will be as soon as we can possibly manage it, you may be assured. We will do this, Mrs. Jones. No matter what."

"I hope so," Emma said softly. "I do certainly hope so."

* * *

As the gun went off, with a kick and a boom and short, sharp explosion of fire from the muzzle, time seemed to slow, strange and stretched and distorted, until it seemed impossible that it should still be happening, that Geneva would never do anything in her life but watch it happen. She could almost see the trajectory of the ball as it left Israel Hands' pistol, see it tearing toward the capstan and the barrel of powder that must be waiting there to blow the entire  _Rose_ sky-high. Knew then that she had to jump in front of it, that indeed she should already have started to do so if she wanted any hope of stopping it, and yet her feet were not cooperating. She took half a stumbling step, pushed off, and started to leap – and then was knocked violently sideways by something, ended up face-down on the deck with reality snapped back to full speed, and nothing, anywhere, but shouting.

Geneva began to panic, twisting and kicking to get free, as whoever had tackled her out of the bullet's path struggled to hold her. The  _Rose_ had not yet blown up, so it must not have hit, but – it could be a misfire, it could not have penetrated deep enough, Hands could be reloading even now, someone else could have been hit, something could have –

She rolled over, jammed her knee up hard, heard a grunt of pain, and realized that the person who had tackled her was Silver. There was a look of desperate fear on his face that she had never imagined, and he only half seemed to see her. Yet there was also a terrible commotion going on behind them, and after their eyes locked for a jolting instant more, Geneva recovered herself and pushed him off, springing to her feet. She glanced wildly from side to side: in one direction, someone was slumped in front of the capstan, and in the other, Jim had charged Hands personally, and was now battling to contain him with the help of Thomas and one of the brawnier crewmen. Hands was fighting like the madman he was, but Thomas, likewise with a look Geneva had scarcely imagined from him, something hard and hot and violent, swung back a fist and hit him in the face with the sound of crunching cartilage. "Stay down."

Hands spat blood as Jim wrestled the empty pistol out of his grip and kicked it away across the deck, then divested him of the several more loaded ones that had been strapped at various locations on his person. Geneva stared between them, then remembered that someone had been shot, and experienced a terrible fear that it was Madi. She whirled away from the hand Silver was trying to put to her elbow, ran back to the capstan, and –

It was not Madi. It was Eleanor. She half-sat, half-sprawled against the wood, hand pressed to the scarlet hole ripped low in her left side, staring with an expression of disbelief at the blood leaking through her fingers. By the looks of things, she had made a last-second leap between Hands and the gunpowder, perhaps realizing for bloody once what a misjudgment she had made in trusting a dangerous man and arrantly taking for granted her own ability to control him. Eleanor was not a martyr, Geneva had known that from the first. She must have just meant to stop the  _Rose_ from being blown up, to preserve her chances of reaching her son, but. . .

Geneva paused, staring at the older woman, as Eleanor's eyes met hers in a look of silent, desperate appeal. Then she bent down, slid her arms behind Eleanor's back and knees, and hauled her upright. Awkwardly balancing her, grateful for all the ropes and barrels she had hauled, Geneva carried her across the deck, Eleanor's torn skirts trailing, and kicked the cabin door open. Aside from serving as first mate, Mr. Arrow had also been the  _Rose's_ surgeon, and they had nobody left of remotely comparable skill. It would have to be her, Geneva realized. She knew the basic idea of it, but this – and for a woman who had sold them out to Hands, had sold her family out to Gold, betrayed everyone who ever cared for her –

For a brief moment, Geneva supposed that she would be completely justified in standing here and watching Eleanor die slowly. Wounds to the abdomen were often a death sentence even with attempted care; they festered and lingered and worsened inexorably, brutish and protracted. She didn't  _think_  the shot had hit the bowels, but she would have to look, and even if she managed to get the bullet out and stop a preliminary infection from setting in, they still had at least another fortnight at sea before they reached any sort of land. Bermuda was the closest, as they had stopped over on the way out from Nassau, but even if they dropped Eleanor off for care – even if Geneva did her best now, it still could be all for –

Eleanor looked up at her, eyes blank with terror, and Geneva realized that Eleanor knew exactly what she was thinking – that she was debating whether to let her live, or perhaps whether to fetch one more pistol and make a clean end of it. She reached out, clawing at Geneva's skirt, staining it with blood. "Please," she choked. "Please help me."

Geneva remained immobile an instant longer, then whirled away. Tied up her loose hair in a knot, splashed her hands in the wash-basin, and fetched Mr. Arrow's old surgical chest from the trunk. Most at-sea medicine was of the quick and gory sort anyway, the amputation of a shattered limb or the stitching of some wound from a gun or broken spar, and she had certainly assisted at these, shoved the leather strap between a man's teeth, told him to bite, and held him down through the awful grates of the bone saw. Mercifully few, but at least she wasn't going to swoon at the sight. She uncorked a brandy bottle, wiped the wicked-looking shears with it, and cut away Eleanor's dress and corset, revealing the mangled mess of her lower ribs where the round had struck. She had to get it out, or it would putrefy and burrow deeper and tear apart more of Eleanor's innards. Jesus. There was a  _lot_ of blood.

Taking a deep breath, Geneva removed the fine-nosed forceps, and likewise washed them in brandy. She was just thinking sorely of the need for a pair of extra hands when the cabin door opened again. "Jenny? Jenny!"

"I'm a little busy, Uncle Thomas." Her voice sounded strange, thin, detached. "Can it wait?"

Thomas evidently saw what she was doing, as she heard another sharply indrawn breath, but he did not miss a beat. "Silver and Jim are dragging Hands to the brig," he said crisply. "And I sent men down to the hold to sweep it thoroughly, as well as check the capstan. We should be safe enough, for now."

"Thank you." Geneva gestured to him with her chin. "Hold her down, please."

Thomas strode over without delay, taking up a position at the head of the bed and gripping Eleanor's forearms with both hands, pinning her firmly in place. Geneva dipped up another bowl of water, pulled some punctured whalebone from Eleanor's corset out of the way, and began to excavate for the bullet, prodding gingerly with the forceps to further gushes of blood. Eleanor was clearly doing her best to suffer stoically, but she finally screamed, a horrible, choked, gulping sound, as cold sweat dewed on her forehead. "Light," Geneva ordered tersely. "I need more light."

Thomas managed to strike a one-handed spark against the corner of the desk, dropping it in the wick of the oil lamp and moving it for Geneva to see what she was doing. Finally, she glimpsed the dark, blood-wet curve of the ball, embedded fairly deeply in tissue, and had to use the knife to help cut it free. She gripped it and eased it loose, Eleanor uttering a repetitive, stabbing whimper every time she tugged, until it finally came free. She dropped it in the bowl, a fine tremor running through her hands, and tried to think how to possibly stanch the bleeding. It was impossible to stitch, and all but inviting corruption. It was plain that Eleanor could not be moved, or exiled to one of the crew's berths below, and that Geneva would have to devote a good chunk of further time to her care. For better or worse, for whatever motives, whether intentionally or by accident, Eleanor  _had_ saved them all from being blown up by Hands, even if she had been the one to partner with him and help bring him aboard in the first place. She might well still die, but at least not if Geneva could do a damn thing about it.

After a pause, she went back to Mr. Arrow's surgical chest, pulled out the wads of cotton wool, and remembered that ideally you were supposed to boil them, but she did not have time, or a cookfire, near at hand. Instead, Geneva carefully pulled together the wound as best she could, then began to pack it with the wool, pressing down hard, even as each layer kept soaking up red. Eleanor's eyes were showing their whites, and the bedclothes where she lay were sodden as well; her pulse was fast and shallow. Thomas snagged the brandy bottle and administered her a few swallows as makeshift pain medicine, with a sort of casual dexterity that made Geneva realize he had done this before, and often. Thought again of the years he had spent apart from Grandpa and Granny, and how he had said that they did not need to know it all, just as he felt no entitlement to demand every part of their lives. That, however, would have to wait.

At last, with their combined efforts, they got the bleeding slowed to an oozing, angry trickle beneath the pads and pads of soaked gauze, and carefully replaced them with some fresh ones, wrapping Eleanor's torso about and about with bands of torn linen. Thomas held them in place while Geneva pulled the knots tight, and then, finally, she laid Eleanor back against the thin pillows, feeling absurdly guilty that this was such a poor hospital. Thomas gave her another swallow of brandy, and Eleanor's eyelashes fluttered as she shivered uncontrollably, teeth chattering, blue veins showing beneath her skin. "I'm c-c-c-cold."

Geneva went and fetched the other quilt from the trunk, draping it over her. "You can't move. That will open again at any exertion. I'll clean it and do my best for it, but I. . ." She hesitated. Eleanor wasn't a fool, she knew it was bad. "I can't promise anything."

Eleanor paused, then nodded once. She was barely at the threshold of consciousness anyway, and with the hellish procedure done, clearly saw no reason to cling on in pain and blood. Her head dropped back, and she passed out as if struck with a rock.

Geneva and Thomas stood side by side, breathing hard, regarding their patient. It was the most time they had spent together since their fight – if fight was even the word for it, just Thomas' disappointment and anger – in Bristol, and neither of them said anything for a long moment. Geneva braced herself for her uncle to ask why she had not told them about Hands and Eleanor, why she had nearly risked getting the  _Rose_ blown up, all the other mistakes she had made. She supposed it was his right, but she felt as if she might crack if he did, and did not want to cry. Not yet. There was still that monstrous lie that Silver had told Jim about Daddy, and – and – so much. So much. It pulled at her like an endless dark sea, threatening to close over her head no matter how much she struggled, the way a drowning man drowned faster when he knew that he was and his body tried to force him to breathe, and took in only water. Jesus Christ, she was so exhausted.

Thomas, however, did not rebuke her. Instead, he bent to rinse his bloody hands in the bowl, still with an intent, inward expression that made Geneva think that he was recalling some less-than-pleasant memories of his own. Finally, she said in a small voice, "You were good at that. And – and with stopping Hands. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Thomas did not look up, scrubbing methodically between each of his fingers as if determined to get more than Eleanor's blood off him. "I – used to assist with such things. At the plantation. The men were all highborn, embarrassments to their families in one sense or another. Many like mine, incidentally, though not all. At any rate, none of them were accustomed to manual labor. Many of them had never lifted a finger for themselves in their lives, always had servants to do it for them. When they were stripped of all such comforts and expected to work the land, that resulted, at times, in rather gruesome accidents, and there was a need for a man to help the surgeon. I – well, I found myself in the role."

Geneva nodded wordlessly. She could well imagine that her uncle, who cared so deeply for people, who would have felt with every breath the injustice that had led their families to reject them and pack them off to the middle of nowhere, would have been drawn, indeed bound and determined, to alleviate his fellows' suffering how he could. It made her heart hurt that this was how Thomas Hamilton had had to cling to his goodness through those years in the wilderness, that he had only been in Georgia and James and Miranda in Nassau, so close and never knowing. She did not want to ask if he had ever heard of the exploits of the dread pirate Captain Flint, for that seemed too cruel to be borne. Besides, she sensed that Thomas' preoccupation just now did not have to do with Grandpa. Finally, she ventured, "Did something. . .?"

Thomas smiled, very faintly. "There was a man a few years younger than me," he said after a pause, "and disgraced for similar offenses. We arrived around the same time, and as people in desperate circumstances do, we grew close. His name was Alexander Gordon MacKenzie, of Edinburgh. I at least had the experience of Bethlem Royal Hospital to prepare me for what I was going to face – indeed, by comparison, the plantation was a great relief. He had less, and suffered more. I protected him, as best I could. We – I suppose we loved each other, for a little while. He had the most delightful wit, turn of phrase, gentle humor, when it could be coaxed out of him, from the wrack and wear and madness that the world had dealt him."

Geneva could hear the pain in Thomas' voice, his struggle to speak of this even now, and knew better than to ask if he had ever mentioned Alexander to James and Miranda, if this had been another of the ghosts that he, like they, had quietly put aside in the terrible joy and terrible agony of their reunion, all these years later. Left behind with the pieces of the old self, in the past, and yet still mourned. Softly she said, "I'm so sorry."

"Aye, well." Thomas drew an unsteady breath. "One day, in the fields, he cut himself badly with a threshing knife – an accident, or so they said. Given as he was a soldier in his previous life, I doubt very much that he should suddenly be unfamiliar with a large blade. They brought him to the surgeon's, and I, of course, was there to assist. I held Alexander's hand, and watched him bleed, and when the surgeon tried to give him brandy for the pain, he spat it out. We patched him up much as you and I did for Mrs. Rogers, just now. I told the surgeon that I would stay with him, and so he left. When the man was gone, Alexander told me to take off his bandages, kiss him, and sit with him until I should prod him with a knife, and make sure he was dead. If he screamed, he told me, I would know that he was bound for hell, as the Scriptures said, for loving another man. If he did not, if he should die with a smile, then I should know he saw the gates of heaven before him, and I should feel no shame."

Thomas' voice caught, ever so slightly, and he had to turn away. Finally he said, "So I did. I took off the bandages, and kissed him, and held his hand. I was terrified, I confess, that he would scream in torment, and that I would know I had done a terrible wrong – to him, to myself, to James, to everyone else I had loved. Not to Miranda, true, but then, nothing could ever dishonor her. But he did not. He never did. I have never seen a man die in such profound relief, and with his eyes reflecting some light far beyond that rude little hut. He looked over my shoulder in such humble awe and delight, and I wonder still if he saw Christ Himself coming to take him up into his arms. Then I saw him go, so quietly, the very moment. I did not need to prod him with a knife or anything else of the sort. I knew."

Geneva reached for his hand, and Thomas held it tightly. Again it was several moments until he could complete his story. "They came in later, and found me with his body, his bandages off, and it plain that I had done it. They asked why I had not called for a priest if I knew him to be dying, that I had placed his soul in peril of hellfire if I had not allowed him to confess and be cleansed, that I had even helped him along the road. It was, they said, as if I had murdered him myself. After that, I was no longer allowed to assist the surgeon. I went back to the fields."

"Uncle Thomas. . ." Anything Geneva could say felt hollow, just as when she had heard Madi's story of losing her son. Part of her did not want to know these soul-deep scars of her elders, since learning them illicitly was what had made Thomas angry with her in the first place, but that was only since she could not imagine bearing such pain herself, and remaining sane. Retaining any scrap of herself, of continuing somehow onward, and not wanting ever to know, in such fashion, if she had enough strength to do it. She now knew why Thomas did not, could not, grudge Sam Bellamy to James and Miranda, or any of the other ghosts. Any of the others they had known, and loved, and lost, in the long years thinking the others dead. "Uncle Thomas, I'm so sorry."

He smiled at her, eyes still a thousand miles away, and patted her hand. "I'm sorry too, Jenny," he said quietly. "I'm sorry too. But it's all right. Alexander is in heaven, I have never known anything so strongly as I know that, and I knew then that I had not been wrong. To believe as I had, to act as I did, to love as I had, and always would. And so, I found the strength to carry on."

"I shouldn't," Geneva said. "I shouldn't have sailed into the storm, I shouldn't have spied on you and Silver, I shouldn't have made such a mess with Hands, I shouldn't have – "

Thomas leaned over and kissed her forehead.  _"Te absolvo,"_ he said, very quietly. "If you will forgive me the bit of Popery. Alexander was a Catholic, you see, and it rather comes to mind."

Geneva nodded, silent tears slipping down her cheeks, and Thomas offered her his handkerchief. He put his arm lightly around her shoulders, the  _Rose_ creaking reassuringly beneath them as they kept on sailing into the night, whole and intact. She allowed herself to shake for a few moments more, then pulled herself together and got to her feet. "I need to talk to Silver."

Thomas paused, then nodded. "Very well. I'll stay here with Mrs. Rogers."

Geneva kissed his cheek, then got to her feet, hair coming down in tangles from its slapdash knot and blood drying brown on her skirts as she crossed the cabin and pushed out into the night. The crewmen had managed to mostly clean up the scene on deck, and Madi was still standing by the capstan, shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. Geneva could not help but wonder if Madi thought that of course, one more time, Eleanor had elbowed her aside for her own needs. She paused. "Madi? We can find you a bed, we – "

"Thank you," Madi said, not looking around. "I will find my own. You have other matters to attend to, Captain. Do not trouble about me."

Geneva winced, sensing her dismissal, and decided to take it. She climbed onto the ladder and down toward the brig, which was not much more than a barred privy shaft crammed against the fore hold. Silver and Jim were standing in front of it, not looking at each other or speaking, both of them keeping baleful eyes on the rattling and clanking from within. Israel Hands, by the sounds of things, was not disposed to take his imprisonment quietly.

Geneva could not help glancing nervously at it, even though she knew he couldn't get out. She and Jim stared at each other for an excruciatingly uncomfortable moment. Then she cleared her throat. "Could I – could I borrow Mr. Silver, please?"

Jim grunted, as if to say he couldn't stop either of them from whatever it should damn well please them to do. He remained where he was, plainly intending to continue standing guard, and this was not a conversation that Geneva wanted to have with an audience. She beckoned Silver off down the gantry, for as much privacy as anyone could ever have on a sixth-rater. The ensuing silence was even more hideous. Then Geneva said, "I must ask this only once, and you must answer truthfully. Did you have anything to do with smuggling Eleanor and Hands onto the ship behind my back?"

"No." Silver threw his shoulders back and regarded her coolly. "Did you think I did?"

"No," Geneva allowed. "But I had to be sure. Besides, that is not what you have to answer for. Thank you for saving my life, by the way. But if that bullet had struck the capstan and Hands' firetrap there, we all would have – "

"And was it better that it should strike you?" Silver's blue eyes were both angry and pleading. "Allow yourself to be shot by the madman, in some damaged atonement for your own mistakes? Believe me, I know something about those. But you are, if nothing else, the captain of this vessel, and therefore, you are slightly less replaceable than the others. Besides, I dealt with your parents long enough to anticipate that some unwise self-sacrificial streak might appear at a moment like this. And so – "

"Yes," Geneva said, not quite as coolly as she wanted. "My parents. Do you care to tell me, perhaps, why you told Jim that my father killed his, and for what purpose?"

Silver grimaced. For a moment she thought he would try to run, and resolved to kick his false leg out from under him and beat him over the head with it if he did. Then he said, "I told Jim to stop him from going down to the hold, after I met Eleanor and she warned me that there was something dangerous down there – which, as we have all learned most spectacularly, was our friend Israel Hands. As for what I told him, it is because. . ." He hesitated. "Geneva, your father did kill James Hawkins senior. I was not lying. I know you don't want to hear that, but – "

Geneva reared back as if he had slapped her. "How would you know that?"

"I  _was_  there in Nassau at the time. So were you, in fact, but still some months from being born."

"So you told Jim that my uncle Liam didn't kill his father, because – "

"Because it wasn't what happened!" At last, Silver sounded frustrated, balling his fist and hitting the bulkhead wall with a thunk. "Your  _uncle_  didn't, but – "

"So what, hold back the real information until you could most profitably use it?" Geneva's own voice was becoming more heated. "When were you planning to turn Jim on me, exactly? And I still don't believe that Daddy even did it, he and Mr. Hawkins were friends, they were friends, Hawkins was the purser on the  _Imperator,_ why would he – "

"Your father was Captain Hook, Geneva." Silver modulated his tone with an effort, and looked at her straight. "You know the stories, but the reality is. . . different. You know that he sacked Antigua and Jamaica, you know he killed men – many of them, in fact. Yet all of those were faceless, abstract, and doubtless you half-felt, as he did, that they deserved it anyway for daring to side with Robert Gold and the British crown. But to know that your father looked into the eyes of a man he held a dear friend, wished with all his heart it had not come to this, and destroyed him nonetheless – that is no easy thing to reckon with."

"And what? You're judging him for that?"

"Me?" Silver laughed, unfathomably bitterly. "When I did the exact same thing? Jesus Christ, no."

"Oh?" Geneva lifted her chin. "Whatever you did to Grandpa on Skeleton Island, you mean?"

"Yes." Silver's hand opened and closed on the wall. "Yes, I do mean what I did to your grandfather on Skeleton Island. Now that that is clear, may we proceed?"

"But – " Geneva faltered. "You didn't kill him – so it can't – "

"Believe me," Silver said, "I killed Captain Flint. And to know that James McGraw made it off eventually, that he reunited with his great loves, that he has had a long and happy life with his family – yes, I tell myself that it was all to the good in the end, and that he must have seen it my way, and even have ventured at forgiving me. Then I remember that man forgave no one, and never did, and that he must still hold the bitterest loathing in his heart deep down, that he feels it stab again when he thinks of me. Over and over, for twenty-five years. And then you and Thomas appeared, like something out of a dream, like something from a nightmare. Do not expect me to stand aside and watch you be shot. _Do not."_

Despite herself, Geneva flinched at the rawness in his voice, the burn of tears in his weathered eyes, as he realized he was saying too much, baring too many wounds, and shut his mouth with a click, turning away. The horrendous silence returned. Then she said, "If Daddy – if he did kill Hawkins – why didn't he just – why didn't you just – "

"I was not trying to hurt Jim," Silver said, half to himself. "Or turn him against you. I swear."

Geneva considered grimly that if Jim did end up turned against her, she did not have the luxury of only blaming Silver, easy and convenient as it was. Would have to face her own choices, if she likewise wanted to stand aside and watch it happen, or try to avert it now before it went past the point of no return. "Even if so – what would be enough, what would make Daddy turn on a friend like that – if he – "

"As I understand it," Silver said, "Hawkins wished to hand Sam Bellamy over to the Royal Navy, in exchange for the possibility of a pardon and restoration to service of the  _Imperator's_ men who had followed your father into piracy. In hopes of preserving this chance, he had also led those men into mutiny. Your father himself was. . . not amenable to the idea."

"Daddy had known Hawkins for years. He had only known Bellamy for – what, a few months?"

"Your parents loved him." Silver's voice was very quiet. "So did your grandparents. It was something he inspired easily. The time of it mattered little, but – "

Geneva did not answer. She felt as if her heart was falling out of her foot. She had always been so adoring of her father, never given much real thought to the darkness of his past, had felt – exactly as Silver had said – that anyone who crossed him and ended up dead must have deserved it somehow. She had always felt attached to her godfather as well, been determined to honor his memory, when everyone in the family seemed to miss him so much – but to hear that your father had killed a friend of many years' standing for the sake of some  _pirate_ that had been dead all this time, and none of them could just let go of –

"To hell with Sam Bellamy," Geneva said furiously. "I'm tired of the control his ghost somehow still has over all of them. He can fuck off and drown again, for all I care. Maybe this time we'll finally be rid of him. I don't care what Daddy thought he was doing. I know they were bad people in their day, but – you know what, I can see exactly why Jim is so angry at the lot of us. I used to be proud to be part of this family. I don't know that I am anymore."

Silver opened and shut his mouth, looking stricken. He reached for her, but she pulled back as if he had tried to stab her. She spun on her heel, and strode away.

The next several days were a repetition of the same dreary routine. While it was debatable if that had been her exact intention, Eleanor had ended up with the best bed on the ship, and could not be dislodged from it. Geneva fetched her chicken broth twice a day, rich with meat and marrow, and changed and washed her bloody bandages, carefully tending the wound with what few supplies she had to hand. But Eleanor was clearly suffering, hanging on but not mending, and kept urging Geneva to try something else, as if she was supposed to become a full-fledged surgeon on the spot. Thomas helped with what field knowledge he had, but a gunshot wound of this location and severity was sometimes fatal even in the best-equipped circumstances. Geneva still did not intend to just let her die, but Eleanor's care was occupying all of her time, attention, and the extra supplies on the  _Rose,_ and it could not even be certain of a favorable result.

As well, the situation with Jim and Silver continued to walk on eggshells. Jim barely exchanged more than a dozen words with Geneva a day, and those only when he could not otherwise avoid acknowledging her presence. Thomas had given up his berth to Madi, as she refused to bunk with Eleanor, which meant that she and Silver were now sharing quarters; Thomas and Geneva themselves slept on cramped pallets on the floor of the cabin, Eleanor occupying the bed. They continued to make good time on the westerlies, but if they were drawing closer to Skeleton Island like this, preparing to find Billy and Lady Fiona and whoever else they might have recruited – Geneva could not for the life of her imagine it going well.

A few more evenings hence, she got a distant sight of land on the horizon, pulled out the chart, and reckoned that they must be almost in reach of Bermuda. As it was of course where they had stopped over on the way out, and learned of Billy's intent to go to Bristol, there was something to be said for a return visit – if nothing else, they could offload Eleanor and transfer Hands to the custody of a proper bailiff. They could also top up on their beleaguered supplies – nothing critical, but still running lower than Geneva would like. God, she wanted to be off this wretched tub and not set foot on it again for at least another six months. Or a year.

She went off to find her crew and give the order for them to make for St. George's Town. They were bearing up reasonably well under all the unexpected exigencies, detours, and delays, but Geneva knew they were running thin at the edges as well, and one night ashore did not sound like the worst thing in the world. Thus, of course, no matter how much they changed the sheets and lines, they could not wrestle the  _Rose_ out of the grasp of the wind. Geneva ordered the sails reefed, trying to slow their headlong charge, but even with the canvas down, the current kept the ship firm in its grasp. The waves were rough and choppy, and remembering that this was almost precisely where they had encountered the hurricane on the outward journey, everyone was terse and on edge, watching the sky for any hint of an ominous darkening. It wasn't quite that bad, but at this rate, all they were going to do was wave at Bermuda as they were swept by.

Geneva had been fighting the wind and current with the rest of them all day, every muscle aching as if she had been clubbed, hair coming down in long, sweaty clumps until she was sorely tempted to take the shears and hack the lot of it off. At least the effort had kept Jim from remembering, too much, that he was mad at her, and they had been working in close proximity to more or less success. But as it became clear that they were not going to be able to force a landing at St. George's, and Bermuda began to fall astern again into the twilight, Geneva pushed back from the wheel and began to beat her hands on the helm-housing, swearing. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck this whole  _fucking_ stupid fucking  _fuck_ of a voyage!  _Fuck!"_

She felt someone grab at her wrists, trying to stop her, but ignored them, hitting her hands again and again, ignoring the pain. Then Jim managed to catch her palms, covering them with his own, and their eyes locked for a long moment as one of the crewmen dove to take over the abandoned helm. The entire mood on deck felt fragile and furious and close to snapping, men grumbling and staring evilly at Silver, the most clearly apparent scapegoat for their present misfortunes. "What d'ye think, lads?" one of them asked. "Chuck him overboard, see if the goin' gets easier?"

A low, agreeing rumble went up, chilling and ugly; Geneva had heard the sound of men intent on violence often enough not to mistake it. She took a step. "Jesus Christ, you cretins. Throwing him off the ship isn't going to help a – "

"How do you know?" one of the men asked – one of the newcomers she had taken on in Bristol, who had no particular reason to trust a young female captain. Job Anderson, Geneva thought his name was – a tall, athletic, powerful man, who would have been rather nice-looking if he wasn't scowling so heavily at her. "You've barely been seen all voyage, nursemaiding that bitch who nearly got the lot of us blown up."

"Eleanor didn't – look, bloody hell, there are plenty of other sins to lay to her account, but – "

"You shut up, woman." Anderson's scowl turned into something closer to a leer. "Keep all those pretty teeth inside your head, eh?"

"You don't speak to my niece that way," Thomas warned him. "Or else you'll be the one we offer as a sacrifice for calmer seas, Mr. Anderson."

"Oh? And what are you going to do about it, old man?"

"Don't do this. We barely avoided this situation once, and to replay it again can be of no use whatsoever. Stand down, all of you."

"And look at you givin' the orders for her. Isn't it clear she can't command men by herself?" Anderson took another step, causing Geneva to retreat an involuntary pace. She hated it when taller, stronger men purposefully used it to loom over and intimidate you, knowing it was something almost primal in a woman to back down before an angry male, if the alternative was being hit. "Think it's time you go back to your dollies and your embroidery, little lady. The  _Rose_ needs a real man's hand to master her."

"Fuck off, you arrogant son of a bitch." Geneva's knees were trembling, but she locked them hard. "This is my ship. Anyone who disagrees is welcome to explain himself to the magistrate, when we reach the Colonies and I have the lot of you arrested."

"Oh, arrest and the gallows, is it?" Anderson eyed her appraisingly. "Well, if what's standing between us and that fate is you, an old man, a one-legged arsehole, and the Hawkins lad, could be we'll take our chances."

"Don't you lay a finger on the captain,  _or_ any of the – " One of Geneva's longtime crewmen, Alan MacGregor, drew his pistol. "You rabble-rousing bastard, you get the fuck off our ship before you do something you can't – "

Anderson whirled, pulled his own gun, and shot MacGregor through the head. The sound was like a thunderclap, nailing everyone's feet to the ground, as Geneva felt as if she had been about to scream but it had been driven out of her. Jim grabbed her arm one one side, Thomas to the other, as MacGregor, lips still moving, keeled over and went down face-first on the boards, blood spreading in a slow leak beneath him. Even Anderson seemed momentarily taken aback by his temerity. Then he lifted his head, and grinned.

"Get her, boys," he ordered, and the mutiny of the  _Rose_ began.

* * *

"Sam," Jack said, after a long pause. "I don't think this is a good idea."

"Of course it's a good idea." Sam got to his feet, brushing off the leaves and twigs, as if he was prepared to charge back down into Bridgetown and murder his quarry on the instant. "You were the one who jumped onto the roof of his carriage wearing a dishcloth like a nincompoop. I'm going to actually think about it. Besides, since when was anything you said a good idea?"

"I'm – " Jack appeared briefly at a loss for how to answer that, which was satisfying. "Well, since when were you any good at killing people?"

"Last night," Sam said challengingly. "I killed three men, in fact. It wasn't even that hard."

Jack stared at him. Sam expected some stupid crack about how perhaps he wasn't entirely useless after all, but Jack looked rattled, and less than pleased. "You – " he said convulsively. "You shouldn't have had to do that."

"Oh? Nathaniel shouldn't have had to die either. Fuck them, I hope they're roasting in hell." Sam did his best to sound fierce, but his voice still wobbled. He would kill three more men for something to eat, but his stomach twisted in knots at the thought of actual food. He felt possessed of a black, restless, manic energy that would not let him stand or sit, stalking back and forth between two palm trees like a caged tiger. "Either help me, or go on with whatever the hell you were doing that was so important. I really don't care."

With that, he spun on his much-worn boot and did his best at an icy, imperious exit, bushwhacking through the trees with far less grace than he wanted. After he had just enough time to think that of course Jack was abandoning him, he heard more crashing through the underbrush, and a hand grabbed his arm. "Jesus, if you're – at least think about this! What are you going to do, walk straight into his mansion? Even if you did kill him, you'd be surrounded, his men would kill you in retaliation right away. Never meet an enemy on his ground!"

"Fine then! And I suppose you're Hannibal the master military strategist, are you?"

"If we have any hope at killing him, it's when he is outside his house and off his guard." Jack clearly wondered whether he should explain this as if to a two-year-old. "If we could lure him somewhere by himself, without his guards – then yes, we  _might_ have a chance at him, he's an old man and I don't think he's trained as a soldier. I still think we would be shot on the spot, and he's far too canny, he'd sniff out a trap a mile away. So we'd have to make him an offer he couldn't refuse, even knowing it was some sort of trick, and I'm afraid the only thing we have with that sort of leverage is you. And why bother to come to get you by himself, when he can just bring his guards and capture you by force?"

"I just – " Sam tried to pull away, but Jack held on tenaciously. "I just want to kill him!"

"So did your entire family, they spent months trying to do it, and look where it got them, with all their skill and all their plots and all their rage! And call me completely mistaken if you must, but I'm not sure they want a dead son to add to the pain Gold has already caused them. I'm sorry about your friend, you know I am. More than I can ever say. But this isn't going to – "

"Shut up." Sam shoved harder, managed to break Jack's grip, and turned his back, marching angrily through the plantains. "Just shut up. Instead of trotting across the Caribbean after me, how about you go home to your  _wife?_ Or back to Cuba and Güemes for a new assignment, wherever a spy goes? Oh, and don't act like you care about my family. It doesn't suit you."

There was a marked silence at his back, and Sam lowered his head and told himself it didn't matter. Remembered that plantains could be eaten for food, grabbed one, tore at the tough skin, and took a bite. It was starchy and unripe, but he was hungry enough that he forced it down. He kept on trudging, driven on by the bonfire of rage in his stomach, until he reached the road that led back in the direction of Bridgetown and the governor's villa. It was just a muddy track, heavily shaded by the palm leaves overhead, sunlight coming and going behind the clouds. Gold's men were surely still out hunting for the escapees, and if he wasn't careful, he  _would_ walk directly into them. Fine. If nothing else, they likely did not expect him to take the main road, so he'd stick with it as long as he could, and dodge into the brush if he saw anyone coming.

He walked for a while, until the sun went in, did not re-emerge, and it shortly began to rain.  _Rain,_ however, was a far too delicate and civilized word for this full-throated torrent, drops as thick and heavy as mercury slashing through the jungle and hitting Sam hard enough to make him stagger. Seething runnels of brown water ran around his legs, first at ankle height and then up his calf, until it occurred to him that it he had better get to higher ground if he did not want his grand revenge quest to come to an anticlimactic end by being drowned in a flash flood. He clawed up the steep, muddy bank, hair coming loose and pasted in his eyes, grabbed onto a root, and it broke off in his hand, sending him skidding. A stab of real fear went through him as the water began to suck eagerly at his boots, knocking him off balance. He gathered his legs under him, felt the ground start to crumble, slipped, and –

A hand caught his from above, a hand large and sun-browned and attached to an arm corded with lean muscle, clasped hard, and gave him a very firm jerk clear of the rush. Sam did a stupid little somersault, got a faceful of rich, soaking mud, and then an upside-down view of Jack, who looked utterly exasperated. "What, exactly, were you intending to accomplish?" He had to shout over the thunder and the downpour still drumming the canopy. "Amazing start, really!"

"What are you – " Sam spat out a large beetle and sat up. "Were you following me?"

"Of course I was following you, you idiot!" Jack looked incredulous that this even had to be asked. "And good thing I was, wouldn't you say? Now, should we go together, or do you still want to storm off in a huff?"

"You have no right to point fingers for storming off in huffs, Mr. I'm-Bad-At-Caring-For-People!" Sam struggled to his feet, almost slipped again, and had to grab the trunk of the nearest palm tree. Trust Jack Bellamy to bugger off when you wanted him to hang around, and to hang around when you wanted him to bugger off. "So don't start now!"

Jack opened his mouth, once again discovered no good answer, and shut it. They were thus obliged to discontinue the conversation until the tropical cloudburst passed, leaving the road a good two feet of muddy swamp and the trees dripping like bullets, as well as both of them thoroughly soaked to the skin. Then they started to walk, boots squelching, the humidity briefly dispelled by the rain but already closing in again, as unpleasantly as a hot wet blanket. Sam felt as if he was breathing more water than air, drenched in sweat, by the time they reached an overlook into Bridgetown. Gazing down over the harbor, the first thing they noticed was that the  _Griffin_ was still in port. Evidently, whether because of the need to search for the fugitives or some other reason, Matthew Rogers had not yet departed.

Sam was half tempted to suggest that they make it a clean sweep and kill Matthew too, but for some reason, the young Navy captain frightened him more than Gold did, and he didn't want to get Matthew's entire crew, as well as the Admiralty, on their cases as a result. One Jones poking that bear in the eye was more than sufficient. Besides, Matthew would thank him, once they killed Gold and he had his eyes opened to the wee bastard he'd been serving so devotedly. Might even give them a free ride home in gratitude. No sense shutting that door just yet.

Sam blew out a wet, weary breath, wondered if it was worth it to empty out his boots or if they'd just fill up again, and beckoned Jack around to the path that led down the backside of the headland. It was a slow, skidding descent, nearly flying off the hillside several times, but when they finally made it down, they spotted another ship just entering the harbor, perhaps held off from approach by the earlier storm, but now closing with intent purpose. It was a sleek, black, two-masted brigantine under English colors, outwardly no different from anyone else landing at the busy trading port of Bridgetown, but something about it made Sam look again. He stood still, watching intently, as it drew nearer and nearer. It had a figurehead that looked like a queen or a fairy or something of the sort, a crowned woman with wings.  _The hell?_

The ship glided up to the quays, enough for Sam to squint and see that the name on the bow was  _Titania._ A rope was thrown out to tie up, and then after a few moments, two passengers appeared to disembark. A tall, muscled, rough-hewn man with a blonde-grey beard, and a smaller, dark-haired woman in an elaborate black traveling gown and parasol. For no good reason, the sight of them made Sam uneasy, and he squinted harder, possessed by the conviction that he should know them from somewhere. Until suddenly, he recalled something that Gold had said during their audience at first arrival:  _Make no mistake, the prospect of Skeleton Island intrigues me as much as anyone, but I have already set other pieces in play toward that end. You recall a man named Billy Bones? I don't suppose you would._

But wait – was  _that_ Bones? The one who hated Grandpa? They had already discovered that he had bought up the maps from Mr. Kerr in Nevis, but – was he back now, and who was that woman? Sam did not like her just to look at her, and he didn't know why. She had a prim, sickeningly sweet, self-satisfied expression on her face, as she and Bones climbed into a hire cart and she leaned forward to have a word with the driver. After a brief discussion, and an aristocratic wave of her gloved hand, they set off up the hill toward the governor's mansion.

Sam remained irresolute an instant longer, then jerked his head at Jack. "Come on," he said. "We're following them."


	19. XIX

The commotion from outside beat dimly on the door of the cabin as Jim braced against it, one hand on the latch and a pistol in the other, torn between holding down the fort and rushing out, gun blazing, for what would be a surely spectacular five minutes before he was riddled with bullets, stabbed with a boat hook, chucked overboard, or the other countless ways in which the mutineers could do him in. Much as the heroic option was tempting, however, he had to keep the door shut. Madi, Geneva, Thomas, and Mrs. Rogers were all in here with him, and it would be red slaughter if Job Anderson and his blood-maddened minions burst in. It was a few hours since the uprising on the  _Rose_ had begun, and Jim kept hoping it would burn itself out before dawn. Sometimes they did, after all: men were angry and wanted to let off steam, but were aware that they would be court-martialed and executed if they crossed the line into mutiny, a crime which pirate, merchant, and Navy laws alike punished without mercy. So they'd drink, shoot off guns, terrify the officers, but when push came to shove, stand down, shut up, and go away.

Jim had to admit, however, that this one did not look to be doing so, and they had to get the situation under control fast if the mutineers were to be prevented from taking the  _Rose_ God knew where, or deciding to get their hands on Geneva, Madi, and Eleanor – the latter badly wounded, of course, but still the only three women aboard the vessel, and Geneva, as captain, the object of their outrage. They had already made a few test forays, but Jim had shot at one through the crack in the door, and by the sound of the gurgle and crash, thought he'd hit him. Geneva was in fact standing a few feet behind him with both pistols loaded, and kept insisting to be let out to deal with the bastards herself. As long as she cowered in here, she argued, she proved that she was neither to be respected or feared, and she intended to at least get their fucking attention.

Jim was still angry with her for not bothering to tell him that small bit of information about their fathers, but that did not extend to wanting her cut down in cold blood by these idiots. Thomas likewise was not about to let his niece walk out into the midst of a mob, and urged her to consider the possibilities for a diplomatic resolution first. Madi was sitting as far away from Eleanor as she could, her entire body tense with anger and apprehension, and kept looking up every time there was a particularly loud crash from outside. Finally she exploded, "Where is he? Is he doing nothing at all?"

"I don't know." Jim debated if he could open the door for a better look, but it seemed quite a risk. Silver had gone out some time ago with the promise of trying to pour oil on the waters, and that was the last anyone had heard of him. Jim couldn't help but wonder if the mutineers had just summarily bashed his head in, but he thought they'd be parading the corpse about if so. "I can't see anything."

Geneva made a sharp noise in the back of her throat and strode up alongside him, skirts swirling, to peer through one of the forward windows. "They don't look to be openly brawling on the deck anymore, at least," she said tersely. "I need to know what's going on. Let me out."

"My dear – " Thomas, who also had a loaded pistol lying nearby, got to his feet. "Even if they have calmed a bit, if you appeared suddenly and alone – "

"What if they free Hands from the brig?" Geneva whirled back, eyes snapping. "He could get his hands on more powder and still carry out his threat. Or something else, who knows what he – "

"I understand you are angry." Thomas' voice was quiet and level. "And I know that you feel that as captain, you must put a stop to this disorder and insubordination immediately, and by your own hand, elsewise there may be some lingering cloud over their accusations, some inability for you to dispel the fear that they may be right. It is not so, I swear it is not so. And your grandfather faced a revolt or three aboard the  _Walrus_ in his day, if I recall. Even he did not work his way out of those by simply bashing everyone present about the head – much though he may have wished to."

"No," Geneva said darkly. "That was when Mr. Silver played his part."

There was a communal pause as they all looked at the door, as if to check whether the said Mr. Silver had, in fact, done so yet. Still nothing. Madi shifted restlessly, with a slight, not-entirely-hidden fear on her face. Much as relations might remain (to say the least) difficult with her estranged husband, Jim was quite sure she would not at all care to see him actually die. After a pause, she said, "One of us should go look, even so."

"I'll go," Jim offered. "The mutineers don't have any particular grudge against me, not that I know of, and I might have met a few of them in Bristol of a time. I'm not a bad shot with a pistol, and if I do track down Mr. Silver, he might be inclined to tell me what the blazes is going on. Mr. Hamilton, can you hold the door while I'm off?"

"Aye." Thomas looked at him with surprise and a slight glimmer of respect. "But it's dangerous, lad. If their mood turns again – if Mr. Silver  _is_ dead, then you could just be the next in line to – "

"He's not dead," Jim said. "Not that man."

With that, he made up his mind. Took the extra pistol from the sideboard and slung it through his belt, drew a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. Exchanged a glance with Thomas, who stepped up to assume his vacated position by the door, pulled it open just far enough to slither through, and stepped out onto the dimly lit, fog-shrouded deck of the  _Rose._

The autumn night was chill enough to make him shiver, as he was only in his shirtsleeves, and he supposed the less-than-ideal weather had hampered the mutineers from setting a new course at once. He had heard they'd been caught in a terrible hurricane not far off Bermuda on the way out, and there was a slight keen in the wind that he didn't much like, but at least it didn't seem to be getting any worse. Where they thought they'd hare off to, he didn't know – if it was Skeleton Island, they were planning on going there anyway, so it didn't make sense to stage a mutiny just to send them somewhere they were already headed. Or just as possibly, they had not thought things through that far ahead, and just wanted to depose Geneva and Silver before they made any long-term plans. Could have decided their point was made with the hell-raising, and retired below for a celebratory tankard of ale. Either way, it would not be wise for Jim to abruptly present himself, clearly armed and ready for a fight, and so he crept very, very cautiously across the boards. Mutiny or not, someone was going to have to reef those sails. They'd left the  _Rose_ at nearly full canvas, and didn't appear to be paying a damn bit of attention to her. What, did they just  _want_ to hit a sandbar or run straight into a storm?

Jim debated the merits of climbing the rigging to attend to it, but it would be bloody hard to reef alone, and they could hold out a bit longer, though Jesus Christ only knew which direction they were headed as a result. Brief and unsuccessful though his stint in the Navy had been, it had at least furnished him with a stern dislike of improper maritime protocol, and he could just about hear Captain Smollett complaining in his head. But after a moment of hesitation, he made up his mind, headed for the ladder, and started below.

It was even darker here, and cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey, but by following the sound of talk and shouting, and the faint, dancing glimmer of a lantern, elusive as marshlights, Jim stealthily made his way toward the crew's quarters. He thought of listening in on Silver and Eleanor, and wondered if more earth-shaking information would be forthcoming as a result of this. But he did not intend to be caught, or to reveal himself this time, and stopped just behind the bulkhead. Saw the men standing or sitting, perched on barrels or sacks or their hammocks – but all looking, however unwillingly, at the king holding court, his throne a cannon, his hair loose in grey-black curls, and his face carved by the flickering lantern into hollows of light and shadow, a gargoyle cast in stone to gaze on the sinners below. They might hate John Silver, they might have sworn to kill him just hours ago, but Jim could see them falling into his ocean like sailors in the grip of sirens, not even noticing that they were about to drown.

"No," Silver was saying decisively. "You're going to do what I say, and you're going to let me handle this. You know that there's no chance in hell of them listening to any of you. I know what to say to lure them out, and if we are going to sustain this, you will have to rely on my knowledge. In more ways than one – which you know, don't you? You have no map to reach Skeleton Island, apart from the one in my head. Just as was the case with the  _Urca de Lima's_ schedule, once upon a time. Tell me, gentlemen, are you familiar with the concept of irony?"

"Stop talking so much, Silver." That was Job Anderson, the leader of the mutineers, standing across the way with arms folded. "We could make you give up them bearings, you know. What could you do against us, with that peg leg?"

"Could you?" Silver smiled oddly. "As for the peg leg, I killed a man named Dufresne with it once. Split his head like a ripe peach, until his brains ran out on the floor. Yours does not look terribly more difficult, if you really are so keen as to try. But given as my value speaks for itself, I don't think you will."

"You'd tell us you was luring them out, then go up there, tell them our plans instead, and get them to come down here and kill us all. You think we was born yesterday, we haven't heard who Long John Silver actually is?" Another of the mutineers, a man named George Merry if Jim recalled, looked absolutely incredulous. "You think any of us are actually swallowin' this sack of shite? We all know how you're keen to play both sides. Get fucked."

Silver gave him an extremely cool look, then raised his voice. "So, does Mr. Merry speak for the lot of you, gentlemen? No voyage to Skeleton Island at all, is that it?"

There were a few restless mutters and glances. None of them liked Silver very much; Jim knew that he had brought some of his own men aboard when the  _Rose_ had departed Nassau, but even they were not in much hurry to speak up in this hostile confederation and paint a target on their backs. Even so, the glittering lure of the fabulous lost wealth of Skeleton Island remained too strong; in other words, their greed was currently stronger than their bloodlust, and it was holding their hands in check. Finally it was Anderson who spoke. "He doesn't speak for the lot of us, no. But we know you're soft on the little lady captain. We can all see it. Saving her from Hands like that, and everything else – you'd never let us kill her."

"Perhaps I would," Silver said pleasantly. "If killing her was even the wise idea in this situation, which it is not remotely. Her family is wealthy, and her father is rather infamous. I don't know about you, but I'd not like to give Captain Hook any call to hunt the lot of us down."

"He's old," said another man. "Like you, Silver. Bye n' bye, your time's passed. Besides, isn't her grandsire Captain Flint?  _That_ Flint? As if you'd ever – "

Silver laughed aloud. "You're saying that to  _me?_ Are you really? The man who destroyed Captain Flint, in case it escapes your recollection? The man who did what the rest of you only wished you had the stomach for – if you were anything more than mewling babes at your mother's tit? The eldest of you could not have been more than what, six or seven during the pirates' war? This is all ghost stories and tall tales to you, you fucking pissants. You have no idea what it was like, so don't act as if you do.  _I_ stopped that war,  _I_ killed the monster of Flint, and I buried his bones on that island. And I advise you not to think that I'm not capable of doing it again, if the situation calls for it. As to whether it does, I am the judge of that. Not you."

There were a few more uncertain looks, but no immediate ripostes. The mutineers were wary of him, on their guard, but also becoming belatedly aware that they could not continue to disrespect or disregard him with impunity. Jim, still concealed behind the bulkhead, felt his mouth go dry. He wanted to say that Silver was merely leading the mutineers on, telling them whatever they wanted to hear to gain their trust, and was indeed planning to turn them over to Geneva and company later, but there was an uncomfortable ring of truth about the words. Jim could hardly rush out into the middle of them and try to shoot – he only had two pistols, they'd tear him limb from limb before he made any progress – and yet, his heart was pounding in his throat. Was this truly so easy for Silver, to cast the lot of them aside and turn his cloak to whoever seemed best fitted to advance his interests?  _Geneva warned me. She warned me._ And had neglected to warn him about the rest, but still. Jim remained low, breathing shallowly.  _Not just yet._

"Very well," Anderson said unwillingly, after a long pause. "So what do you suggest?"

"Now that's more like it." Silver's tone was mild, but there was an unmistakable warning beneath. "As I have said, I strongly advise against freeing Israel Hands from his present confinement. He is a mad dog, and mad dogs have no masters – they savage anyone who approaches them. If we'd still like to have a ship with which to make our journey to Skeleton Island, it is better for all concerned that he remains where he is. Next, as for Captain Jones and the others, leave that to me. We can get a good ransom for her and her uncle, and Madi is no use to you. The Hawkins lad, well, he'll come around to us, no sense wasting a strong back and a steady pair of hands. As for Mrs. Rogers – "

"The bitch whore's never met anyone in her life she didn't betray," Merry said. "And the bitch captain spent the entire voyage distracted with her, using up all our drink, so I hope you're not suggesting that we go to the bother of – "

"Please," Silver said, still mildly. "I would advise you to watch your language. And in fact, yes, I am suggesting we put at least some effort into the project of keeping her alive – or at least keeping the others alive to do it for us. She  _is_ the mother of a Royal Navy captain, and that captain is one whose father, I expect, even you miserable bilge rats have heard of. We can sell her to Matthew Rogers somehow, and if we can embarrass the Navy while we're at it, so much the better. But only if she's alive. Unless, old man that I am, I have missed the practice where it has become common to ransom a corpse?"

Merry opened his mouth, then shut it. Silver regarded him with vicious satisfaction, then went on. "When we reach Skeleton Island, I can take you ashore to where Flint buried at least one of the chests. If the hulk of the  _Walrus_ is still partially afloat – she could have grounded on the shore, rather than sinking into the blue hole – there will be the chance for more. Even one chest, however, will have vastly multiplied in value since 1716. Once we've divided up the spoils, we'll barter Geneva, Thomas, and Eleanor off for their respective ransoms, which will enrich us further. The lot of you will never have to work again, can spend your days knee-deep in drink and pussy and whatever else appeals to you. All if you only listen to me. Do you suppose you could remotely manage that?"

"Doesn't quite seem wise to let  _all_ of them go," Anderson countered. "We should kill at least one of them, put some terror into the others – or at least demoralize them. What about the old man, Hamilton? He could still be dangerous – he put a beating on Hands, even if the crazy bastard was drunk. And he clearly isn't your bosom friend. We could kill him."

"Killing Thomas Hamilton," Silver said, "would be a  _singularly_ unwise idea. Even for you."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"Take it from me. That would entirely undo everything you're striving to gain with this uprising in the first place, and much of the past twenty-five years. As for Hands, if Hamilton hadn't settled him, I would have. I was never intending to let him anywhere near this vessel, I always meant to be first mate after Mr. Arrow's tragic and untimely passing. But Geneva proved less susceptible to my counsel than I envisioned, so – "

"Still just full of hot air and broke promises, aren't you, Long John?" Another mutineer sneered derisively. "You won't let us kill  _any_ of them, no matter how you play at bein' on our side. So soon as we reach Skeleton Island, seems to me it would be a fine idea to leave you there as well, and get us rid of you and your – "

Silver reached into his worn blue jacket, removed a pistol, cocked it, aimed, and shot. The sound was thunderous in the confined space, and yet for a moment Jim, still frozen, thought it had had no effect. Then he saw the red spot blooming on the mutineer's forehead, drilled dead between his eyes. He looked confused, then toppled facefirst with a crash, revealing the wet red ruin of the back of his head. Nobody else moved or spoke.

Silver blew the smoke off the pistol barrel and slung it back into his jacket. His eyes were almost opaque, blue ice, as he rose slowly to foot and peg leg, regarding his handiwork dispassionately. "As you so call me," he said, "Long John Silver, the pirate king, was in his day as feared as Flint. Does anyone else wish to quarrel with my plans or methods? Please, speak up."

Yet again, nobody did. Silver seemed to take that for assent, and seemed about to leave, as Jim backtracked as fast as he could, trying not to make any noise as he sprinted for the ladder. He could hear the mutineers coming down the corridor, clearly set on pursuing their decided course of action, and scrambled topside just ahead of them, running back to the cabin and trying to knock on the door without causing a total ruckus. "Oy! Hey! Let me in, now!"

Thomas jerked it open from the other side, and Jim almost tumbled through before regaining his balance. As he looked around at the pale, strained faces awaiting good news, he felt his stomach knot further. "Well?" Madi said. "Did you find – ?"

"He's…" Jim gulped another breath. "He's down there with them, he was talking with them, I don't know how true any of it was, but – he's on his way, they're coming up, he has them convinced he's going to help them go through with the mutiny. I don't know what that means for the lot of us, but he… he shot one of them, I'm not sure it was all a bluff. He – "

"He what?" Geneva repeated, voice shrill. "He went down there and what – sold us out, quick as spit? And now he's – Uncle Thomas, get your pistol, we have to – "

"There are five of us, Jenny," Thomas said. "One of us too wounded to move, one of us an old man, and you and Jim. Madi is unarmed. We have no hope of fighting the entire crew."

"Some of them must still be loyal to me." Spots of hectic color burned madly in Geneva's cheeks, but her face was otherwise as white as a death mask. "They're not saying it in the middle of a bloodthirsty mob, no, but if it comes to fighting, they'd turn back to my side."

"That is a very slender thread to dangle our lives from," Thomas pointed out. "And if Silver has gone down there to agitate them and whip them up, rather than try to talk them down, there is even less to say how the situation will react. So it is true, everything James said about him. I had hoped it wasn't. Unless this  _is_ some clever long con, which is also entirely possible, but – "

Just then, there was the sound of rough knocking on the door, and a clamor of raised voices. "We know you're in there! The lot of you come out, or we blow it down!"

Geneva flung a desperate look at Jim, as if waiting for him to pull some miraculous escape out of his sleeve, some crucial tidbit of information about Silver's true allegiances that he had just forgotten to tell them. But he had nothing, no answer, as Geneva paused, then strode with utmost poise to the door and unbarred it. "Good evening, gentlemen," she said with magnificently withering contempt, chin held high and gaze unswerving. "I trust you've had a pleasant time?"

"Out, bitch. On deck, now."

Jim saw a shudder pass through Geneva, even as her spine remained ramrod straight, and thought perhaps he had never admired her more than he did then, anger notwithstanding. But it was her father that he had the greatest bone to pick with, not her, and he was not about to let her face those animals alone. He and Thomas caught each other's eye, and followed on her heels, Madi bringing up the rear. They ducked out and stood in a regimental line, surrounded to all sides by leering, baying faces, barely recognizable as the rough-mannered but otherwise ordinary men that they had been sailing with to date. It was as if some collective madness had taken over them, some poison in their well, whether given by Anderson or by Silver it was impossible to say. Merry stepped forward, eyes glinting. "Drop the pistols."

Geneva, Jim, and Thomas obediently put their guns down on the deck boards. Madi remained upright, the bones of her face carved with an almost tangible hatred. "You," she said. "To think any of us dared to imagine that you might do the right thing for us."

Silver might have flinched, but it was hard to say. He had shut any hint of himself away behind the mask of Long John, Jim could tell that at once, so his enemies – whoever those were, whether them or the mutineers – could spot not a single crack in his armor. "Cooperate," he said, "and none of you have to be hurt. We are, after all, proceeding to Skeleton Island as planned, after which you will be returned to your families for a sizable sum. Then we can – "

Geneva stepped forward and slapped him with all her might, hard enough to turn his head with a crack. Silver took a staggering step back, as a murmur ran around the mutineers, attention very keenly tuned to see how their fearless leader would respond to that. "You," Geneva breathed, looking almost unearthly, eyes spitting blue fire. "You can  _rot,_ and then you can – "

Silver straightened slowly, rubbing at the red mark on his cheek. One of the mutineers started forward, as if to administer a retaliatory blow to Geneva, and Silver flung out his crutch to stop him. "Back, if you please."

The tension remained almost sharp enough to cut flesh. Jim had started to stoop for his pistol – if this  _was_  to be a fight to the death, he was not intending to go down empty-handed, without a struggle – but stopped at the look that Thomas gave him. The night was mostly gone, and he could see the first stirrings of dawn in the east, a vivid red stain that felt accordingly foreboding. It twisted bloody shadows from their feet, transformed them all into demons cavorting in the candlelight. And by that glow, some distance ahead, lanterns twinkling like small earthbound stars, Jim just managed to recognize the presence of another ship on the horizon.

A mad, untenable idea suddenly gripped hold of him. He  _had,_ after all, been in the Navy; he knew the semaphore codes with flags and the like – and more pertinently, the distress signals. That ship wasn't close enough for him to catch their attention without a flare or something, and setting off one of those would most assuredly catch these bastards' attention as well. _Where the hell was that cask of powder, the one by the capstan that Hands was going to blow up?_ Jim did not of course intend to finish Hands' noble work for him, but the fact remained that it had been designed to explode rather spectacularly, and that would be one way of getting the other ship to sit up and pay attention. He couldn't be sure, but he  _thought_ it was under British colors. The  _Rose_ flew them too. The others would be honor-bound to come to their assistance.

Jim tried to conceive of any way to communicate this plan to Thomas and Geneva without saying anything, while surrounded by an eagerly murderous horde. He didn't think either of them had noticed the ship, much less connected it to a potential salvation, and either way, he was going to have to make this work – or not – by himself. Thus, this was going to have to do. He yelled, "Hey, you ugly son of a bitch!" and took a swing at Merry.

As Jim had wanted him to do, Merry swung back wildly, just managing to clip his temple. Jim's teeth clacked and he saw bloody stars, but it was not a hit that, in the ordinary course of things, would have taken him down. Still, he rolled with it. Let his eyes loll back in his head, forced himself to go limp, and hit the deck like a sack of potatoes. Thought he heard a short, muffled exclamation – possibly from Geneva, but he couldn't be sure – as everyone took a communal step forward, inches from breaking into a brawl. "No!" Silver shouted. "No, not without my – "

Jim cracked an eye to be sure nobody was looking at him, reached out, and grabbed hold of one of the pistols on the deck. Massively tempting though it was to drop Silver on the spot, larger concerns beckoned. He rolled backward, just as Geneva glanced over her shoulder, locked eyes with him, and realized that while she might not know exactly what he was doing, it was something. For a moment, he could see her struggle with whether to trust whatever madcap plan he had in mind, and then she turned back. Possibly for a diversion, or possibly just because she wanted to, she slapped Silver again, and the deck degenerated into universal chaos.

Jim reached the capstan and slithered under it, to the sound of shouts and grunts and shoving from behind him – no shots, not yet, but they would not risk killing Geneva or Thomas without Silver's say-so. Someone had removed the powder barrel, sensibly, but there was still a fine handful that had spilled, and that was all he needed. He tore a twist of cloth off his sleeve, very carefully gathered up the glittering black dust in it, scooted around the far side, and spotted the lantern that had fallen and smashed earlier, while the mutineers were forcing them into the cabin. There was oil oozing from the broken glass, and Jim tore off another piece of cloth from his sleeve and soaked it. Geneva and Thomas (and for that matter, Madi) were still doing a fine job of dusting it up, and nobody had yet looked back for him, so he decided, to use the educated man's phrase, to carpe the fucking diem. He rolled to his feet, dodged behind the mainmast shroud, and got hold of it, then began to climb. If the other ship had moved out of hailing range, or if one of the mutineers spotted him in the rigging –

No time for that. It was still dark enough that he didn't cast a visible shadow, and with all the pushing and jostling going on below, nobody thought to look up anyway. For his part, Jim determinedly did not look down – this had not been his favorite part of the job, nor the rest of it really, but especially this – and after a few more moments, scrambled into the crow's nest. Wrapped the oil-soaked cloth around the one with the powder, knotted it all together, and knew he only had one shot at this, literally. Tossed the improvised flare high into the sky, aimed the pistol at it, and just as it reached the height of its climb and began to tumble, pulled the trigger.

For a heart-stopping moment, the ball vanished in the murk, there was no reaction, and Jim thought he had missed. Then there was a boom and a fire-bright flash, the melee below cut off abruptly as everyone's attention was jerked sharply overhead, and Jim had to duck as Anderson swung up his rifle and fired at him – missing, but not by much. Then Geneva, nose bleeding and one eye rapidly blackening, let out a roar to make any of her forefathers proud and tackled him, and Jim dove for the old semaphore flags stashed in the crow's nest – the  _Rose_ was a former Navy frigate, so her codes would be the same as the ones Jim knew. He was just as likely to have another mutineer take a potshot at him as soon as he stood up again, but never mind that. He popped to his feet, prayed that the sun was up enough that a man with a spyglass on the deck of the other ship could make him out, and heard another bullet whiz past him in the ropes. Expecting at any moment to be felled by the next, Jim spelled out, as fast as he could, MUTINY.

He squinted desperately at the other ship, hoping to see some sort of acknowledgment, anything, but the light was low and tricky. They looked heavily armed – he could see gun snouts pointing through her ports, and that was definitely the Union Jack at her stern. HELP NOW. Couldn't tell if they were moving, or perhaps even moving off. NOW FUCK IT!

Another bullet rattled off the topspar, and Jim had to flatten himself back down. He listened desperately for Geneva or Thomas or Madi, since he couldn't see, but couldn't pick out anything that was definitively them from the rest of the bedlam. Jesus Christ, one of the mutineers would be up here in another moment to drag him down, and that would be the end of just about –

And then, Jim heard another noise, a low, cracking boom that was plenty bloody recognizable as that of a pair of long nines. It surely had not come from the  _Rose,_ so unless a second mystery vessel had suddenly appeared on the scene, it had to be from the ship he had signaled. Jim twisted around to get his eye to a crack in the floor of the crow's nest, and saw the mutineers scuttling as if water had been poured on an anthill. Some of them were trying to run out the  _Rose's_ own guns, but as most of them were below, there were only a few here, and nothing at hand to load them with. There was another report from the newcomers' long nines, a boom and flash strafed the deck as men dove for cover, and Jim had just enough time to hope that the ship realized they were supposed to stop the mutineers, not sink them outright. Then there was a third boom almost directly overhead, and he went temporarily deaf.

Ears ringing, struggling to regain his balance from where he had been knocked back by the force of the blast, Jim lay where he was, stared up at the cartwheeling sky, and decided to wait for things to bloody pipe down, at least for a damn minute. Then he heard Geneva's voice from somewhere below, sharp and choked with fear. "Jim? JIM!"

Instinct made him roll over, intending to answer her, even as the logical part of his brain reminded him that he couldn't do so without giving away his position. Then he thought to hell with it, the bastards knew where he was anyway, and struggled to his knees. Had just enough time to look over the edge and see her – both eyes now blackened, hair down, nose bleeding harder, and dress ripped and filthy – before Anderson caught sight of him as well, put two and two together as to why someone was now attacking them, and grabbed for another rifle. He was just about to fire it, as Geneva was too far away to get to him in time and Jim found himself somehow unable to do anything but stare at it, when Silver threw his crutch at Anderson like a javelin. The mutineer went down with a curse and a crash, and Silver was on him like a leaping tiger. Swung back the peg leg that Anderson had derided, and slammed it into his skull.

The other ship was almost close enough now for boarders, and grapnel hooks came flying toward the  _Rose's_ railings, trailing ropes and redcoats. They swarmed up the sides, shooting the men who charged at them and clobbering the others over the head with their muskets, as a haze of gun smoke rose into the sullen red dawn. After a frenzied engagement of five or ten minutes, a distorted, thundering quiet began to settle, as one of the soldiers bayoneted the last groaning mutineer smartly through the heart and turned to Thomas. "Your vessel, sir. I trust you'll mind it the more carefully in the future?"

"I'm…" Thomas looked just as dirty and battle-worn as Geneva, who was still staring at Silver, who had just administered a final, savage blow to Anderson. "We're grateful, to be sure, but we… may we at least be allowed to know the identity of our rescuers?"

"You may." Another voice spoke from the deck of the other ship, which by now had almost drawn level with the  _Rose._ It was a tall young man dressed in a fine-cut jacket and breeches of black, with crisp brown hair and brown eyes. "This is the  _Hispaniola,_ out of Charlestown, and my name is Lord Gideon Murray, that same city's governor. In gratitude for your deliverance, perhaps you would come aboard, sir, and inform me of precisely what circumstances caused you to lose control of your vessel? I am afraid our bombardment may have done some damage, so we might have to take you into tow, but that is something else to discuss. Captain?"

Geneva took a step, plainly intending to say that she was the captain, but Thomas shot her a warning look. While only the most dedicated of the mutineers had been killed, and the rest were looking as dazed and groggy as if they had woken up from a very bad night of drinking, they were still shorthanded and in an extremely precarious position to say the least, and perhaps he felt it wiser that he be allowed to handle any delicate diplomacy. Then he cleared his throat. "I would, Lord Murray. Yes."

"Good." Murray gestured to his men still on the  _Rose,_ and raised his voice _._ "Lower the anchor, go the ship over, check for any damages – or anything else interesting you may find. Take your time. The captain and I have a great deal to talk about."

* * *

It was a cool evening, bordering even on chill, as the  _Nautilus_ prepared to raise anchor and set out on what would be, if the wind and weather cooperated, a journey of five or six days to Barbados. Potentially even fewer, given as the fast, maneuverable junk could so well outpace traditional square-riggers, and that, Killian thought, was not nearly enough time to prepare oneself for the possibility of coming face to face with Robert Gold again. If the wee bastard was squatting out there in the Caribbean and had been all this time, arranging ambushes or assassination attempts or God alone knew what other devilry, they could (and very much did) intend to lop the head off the snake, but that was no guarantee of safety from all his allies and associates, the sprawling tentacles of whatever new secret society he seemed to have built for himself. He was exactly the sort of man who would ensure that he fixed his mistakes from last time, that it could go on operating even in the event of his own death, and if so, Killian and the rest of the family could spend their lives looking over their shoulders. Perhaps nobody would bother, if the man who had the greatest grudge against them was dead, but that was very slender surety. The magnitude of the task in front of them, the sheer impossibility of digging up every noxious weed that might have taken root, made Killian want to drink. Heavily.

That, however, was not to be his solace. Nemo was going to drop them a few miles north of Bridgetown, so they did not sail bang into the harbor and give themselves away, and after that, well… improvise like hell. Killian could wish for something a  _bit_ more tactically sound, but he and Flint remained berserkers at heart in: rush in, scare the bleeding Jesus out of their enemies, and tear their shit comprehensively apart. Liam would fight like an ox, because he was one. Emma and Charlotte could shoot, and Regina, well, somebody needed to get Gold's attention. His old business partner on Antigua, the brothel madam with whom he had conspired to destroy enemies to their mutual advantage, might just do the trick. Christ, this was going to be awful.

Killian stood by the railing as the  _Nautilus_ began to cast off, setting her angled sails to the brisk evening wind. He was not sorry to be leaving Nassau; even a brief visit had more than whetted any nostalgia he might feel for the place. They would have to return at some point to retrieve David, Henry, Violet, and the children, who were staying behind as arranged (and hopefully also Geneva and Thomas), but that, preferably, would also be cursory. And this  _was_  his family, the old crowd that had fought together for many years, and was, no matter the circumstances, clearly anticipating one more hoedown. As long as nobody else died.

That was a bloody morbid thought, and Killian tried to push it away. As they skimmed a white track across the placid twilight sea, New Providence Island slowly falling astern, he glanced along the rail to the only newcomer in their coterie, whom he still did not yet know well. "Mrs. Bell, was it? I hope you don't too much mind being the custodian of all the old geezers."

Charlotte smiled. "Only if you think you'll be unable to handle yourself."

"No, that we should manage."  _Hopefully._ Killian had acquitted himself well enough in his duel with Rufio – quite well, considering the mohawked little arse was dead – so at least he shouldn't fall down in a heap of rust on the spot. "I'm told I could have your husband to thank for saving my son?"

"Don't thank me just yet. We don't know for sure, only what that cretin Da Souza told us. Jack went after Sam when Da Souza threw him overboard, so…" Charlotte paused, then shrugged. "If I know Jack at all, he'll have pulled him out, yes. But whether that's only to get into more trouble elsewhere, I would wager so. Your son seems the similar sort."

"He does," Killian admitted. "Comes by it honestly, but still. Will you be going home to Philadelphia when this is over, then?"

"Perhaps. We hadn't settled on any particular place as a permanent residence just yet. Philadelphia was a good starting point, as there are all sorts there, we would be – well. Considering Jack's occupation, the fewer questions asked, the better."

"Aye." Killian regarded her curiously. "How on earth does an Englishman end up working for the Spaniards?"

"How do two Englishmen turn their colors to become Flint and Hook?" Charlotte raised an eyebrow. "We all have our reasons, don't we? And if Jack made enough money and connections, it would be easier to sneak back into France, and – " At that, however, she seemed to think she'd said too much, and stopped short.

"France? I was just there, on my recent whirlwind tour. A few days in Le Havre, Liam and Regina live in Paris. What is it that interests you in France?"

"Not  _what,"_ Charlotte said, after a pause.  _"Who._ But never mind that. Liam – aye, Henry said he would write to his uncle in France, but now that he's here, he can't be much help, can he?"

"Wait." Something pricked at Killian's memory, his liberation of the young woman from the thugs on the docks, and her insistence that she wanted to get to Philadelphia. "Sorry if you've no idea what I'm on about, never mind if so, but would you happen to know an Alix Saint-Clair?"

Charlotte looked as if he'd dropped a bag of bricks on her head. "I –  _what?"_

"Alix – well, I presumed that was her surname, she said her father was Armand Saint-Clair of Montparnasse, and he had sent a few bloody unsavory types to stop her getting a ship. I came across them by accident and assisted in dispatching the ruffians, and in return, she told me who to bribe and how, to get out with Regina. Good bargain for everyone, really, so – "

"You  _saw_ her?" Charlotte looked as if she was only just restraining from grabbing Killian and shaking him until his teeth rattled. "Where is she? Is she all right? Did you see the ship she took? You didn't hurt her, did you? Did she look well, did she say where she was bound, was it – "

"Bloody hell, lass, easy. One question at a time. We didn't talk much, just enough for me to get her name. She said she was making for Philadelphia, I don't know which ship she booked passage on, or when. I take it, then, you do know her."

"I – yes. Yes, I do." Charlotte was pale, but there was a slightly fevered look in her eyes. "Jack and I have been trying to rescue her from her father for a few years now. We came to the colonies after the last attempt backfired. It's – never mind, it's a fiendishly long story. She must have managed to break free and try a run for it, but they – are you sure you killed the men after her? They could have caught up to her again, they – "

"I… didn't kill them, exactly. I dumped them in the harbor, and bought her some time – I'm fairly sure she made it out, but – "

"You  _didn't_ kill them?" Charlotte's brown eyes snapped. Mercy might be accounted a traditionally feminine virtue (though Killian had known too many women to think so himself), but she was plainly having none of it. "Aren't you Captain Hook? Two more men, what was that? It should have been a leisurely luncheon for you!"

"I  _was_ Captain Hook," Killian said, feeling somewhat hypocritical as he did. He was not about to start arguing that the red in his ledger had been cleansed, but still, he felt that twenty-odd years doing his best to atone for that briefly and catastrophically violent episode in his life had to count for something.  _Aye, and then you killed Rufio, quick as spit, so don't go feeling too triumphant just yet._ "And I was already wanted for murder, that being why I was lying low. Two more kills would have made my escape all but impossible."

Charlotte looked as if she was about to say something sharp, but caught herself, though she still huffed an angry breath through her nose. Her lips were thin, her knuckles clenched white, and her disapproval clearly stemmed from the fact that this meant Alix's escape was not entirely certain, that such a shining prospect could have been dangled within reach and then cruelly snatched away at the last moment. Killian eyed her in even more curiosity. "Who is she to you?"

"My – friend," Charlotte said. "My dear friend. And her father's a bloody terrible person, so it's not as if she's been having such a lovely time back there."

"Of course." Killian could see the sense of Jack joining the Spaniards in that case, as they could get much closer to France than the Bourbon cousins' common enemies in England, but it still seemed a queer lot of trouble to go to for just one young woman, no matter how fetching. And as Charlotte had said earlier, he knew something about a man turning his back on his native country, and that it only came from bitter rage and betrayal. "You're lucky to have a husband willing to fight so hard for you and your friend, lass. I hope we can find him for you."

Charlotte smiled again, with considerable wryness. "I'm less worried about Jack," she said, "and rather more for anyone with whom he's crossed paths. He has… quite a temper."

"Never hurt you, I hope?"

"No!" Charlotte looked startled. "No, no, of course not. We rely on each other, we protect each other – and Cecilia. We… we weren't intending to take her along. My brother and his wife helped me and Jack get married, and then they were carried off by typhus a fortnight later. Cecilia was orphaned, and she… would not have done well by herself in England. She'd already been disinherited by her grandparents, my kind and loving mum and dad, because my brother had married so unfathomably far beneath him. Jack and I weren't going to leave her, especially after what they had done for us, so she came along. I'm – not much of a mother, but I try."

"I'm sure you do your best, lass." Killian kept telling himself to bugger off, but the more Charlotte revealed, the more intrigued he became. "How did you and Jack meet, anyway?"

"My brother was supposed to marry his sister," Charlotte said, after another of those pauses that seemed to indicate she had found him worthy of her confidence and elected to continue. "Well, half-sister, but never mind that. My father was Captain Benjamin Goode of the Royal Navy, and Jack is – was – the son of Captain Jonathan Howe, God curse his bones. Illegitimate, and treated so that he might never once forget that fact. I… disagreed with my parents' own plans for my future. We had much in common."

"I see." Killian frowned. He had known Jonathan Howe in passing; they had met a time or two in the Admiralty, as the man had been a contemporary of him and Liam. He also recalled that Howe was one of the captains that Liam had sworn the most never to be like, one of the worst of a generally bad lot. "Both Navy brats then, are you?"

"Were," Charlotte said again. Like him, she did not seem at all keen for the association to be emphasized. "I suspect you know something about how they make their own monsters."

"Aye." Killian could not deny that, and with that, glimpsed another part of Jack's motivation for switching sides. "Is that the other reason your husband took up with the Spaniards? Thinking to come across his father, and kill him? Is Howe still on active duty – he'd be at least pension age now, but with the war, I know they're hard up for captains – "

"I think he is, yes." Charlotte seemed even more reluctant to broach this subject. "It's what he's said he wants more than anything, and I have no reason to disbelieve him."

"But?"

Charlotte looked as if this was the point she was finally going to tell him to mind his own bloody business, but still she didn't. Perhaps whatever this was, she had kept it to herself for ages, borne the weight of it alone, and she wanted it off her chest. At last she said, "Howe's dead. I killed him before we left England. Took a coach to his house in the night, posed as a young woman needing shelter, and he invited me in – though not at all, I suspect, because he intended to give it to me. I had my pistol under my cloak. When he suggested I get out of my wet clothes, I told him who I was and why I was there. Then I shot him, knocked over the pokers and fire-irons to make a clatter, and fled from the room screaming that the master had fallen and hit his head. By the time the servants presumably realized otherwise, I was long gone, and none of them had gotten a good look at my face. We set sail two days later. Jack doesn't know."

Killian was both impressed and considerably chilled at this, the presence of mind that Charlotte had displayed in planning her kill and the matter-of-fact, cold-blooded way in which she had carried it out. Nobody could argue with Howe deserving it, but to say the least, this seemed like something she should have shared with her husband, relieving him of the burden of vengeance, to know that he was not at risk of suddenly coming face to face with his old enemy the way Killian dreaded coming to grips with Robert Gold.  _Aye, and I killed my own father, just as Jack wants to do to his._ He tried to banish the ghost of Brennan Jones, but could not quite.

There was a heavy silence as the  _Nautilus_ continued on into the falling night. Emma called from the captain's cabin, beckoning them to supper with Nemo, but Killian raised his hand, to tell her that they would be just a moment. He looked back at Charlotte, who had pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders, trying to guess at her motivation. Clearly she cared for Jack a great deal, to slay his dragon so that he would not have to, but then why not just tell him? Killian knew it was frightening to confess one's darkest sins – knew it more than most – but when it was something that should have been gratefully received… or perhaps quite the opposite…

"You think he'd be angry at you," Killian said after a moment, very quietly. "For cheating him of his vengeance. And yet, it's the vengeance you need. If he's not, if he does not have that rage to keep him where he is, doing what he is doing, he might stop. He might turn away before he'd managed to rescue Alix. And you won't take that chance, will you?"

Charlotte stared at him. She looked stunned, but she did not look confused, or insist that she did not know how he could have reached that conclusion. Finally she said, "I suppose I cannot be surprised that a man of your… experience would work that out. I know it's a bloody unfair thing to do to him, you don't need to tell me so. But I felt that if he would discover vengeance had been done for him, that I had given as much as I had taken… it would sort out, in the end. I would do his, and he would do mine. The scales would balance."

"I'm not one to answer what any other man would think of it," Killian said. "And it could be that he will yet see it your way. Love can make us do all sorts of mad and dangerous and destructive things, but that's not to be glorified, or exalted. I don't mean to lecture you, lass, but it alone isn't a justification for anything and everything we could ever do. And it's not healthy or normal or good, to be locked in a spiral of destruction, whether you love someone or not. That's why they all die in the end in  _Romeo and Juliet,_ because that's not a bloody love story. Take it from me."

"You're telling me that?" Charlotte raised both eyebrows.  _"You?"_

"Aye, and it was bloody hard-learned. I love my family, my wife, my children, more than life itself, and yes, if it came to it, I would do whatever I had to in order to protect them, just as you would. But I don't want you to think you can keep living that way, you can excuse anything you do because you convince yourself it is for someone else, it can't really be a crime. You called me Hook – well, so did the Lost Boys, and it's true. If I'm telling you this, it's not from some high horse. It's because I've done it myself, I have for years, and if nothing else, all this grey hair should mean I've learned a godforsaken thing or two. I'm trying to mend what I've wrought with my brother, and… he's here, and we've agreed to make a start at it, but I still don't know if I can. I don't want that for you, lass. Even as I am sure you love Alix."

Charlotte started. "I beg your pardon?"

"Alix," Killian repeated. "I didn't think we were talking about Jack, were we?"

This did appear to have in fact finally shocked her. "He  _is_ my husband," she said weakly. "Shouldn't we be?"

"By my lights, it isn't Jack that you're going to all these lengths for." Killian regarded her thoughtfully. "You need him, and I've no doubt he needs you, but what it is – it's not what you two want everyone to think, is it? He does, of course, know?"

Charlotte hesitated for a final moment, then gave up the ghost. "Yes," she said tightly. "It's Alix. And yes, Jack knows. The only way to get me out – my father was talking about doing the same as Monsieur Saint-Clair had, especially after my brother ran off and married a  _colored_ woman, of all the insults to the noble house of Goode – was to marry someone else first, and have my husband pull rank. Jack agreed. He needed to escape as well, obviously. So we did."

"I see." Killian considered. "The others don't know this, do they?"

"Mrs. McGraw knows. A bit. I told her on the way down to Nassau, that Jack and I were… well, what we were, and some of why we had to leave England. As for the rest, it is our own business, and I will thank you to keep it that way."

"I won't spill your secrets, lass," Killian promised her. "But you don't need to fear us. Believe me, none of us are excessively beholden to the church's views on – bloody well anything, really, but the lot of us were pirates. I can promise we've no interest in appointing ourselves the sheriffs of your bedchamber arrangements. Especially when it sounds, to be frank, quite familiar. Is it the three of you together, then?"

A faint blush climbed Charlotte's cheeks. "Overlooking the fact that it  _is_ none of your bloody business," she said crisply, "it's me and Alix. Jack is my friend – my best friend, really – and we do sleep together, but not in a marital sense of the word."

"Ah." Killian had somewhat suspected this, but everything made considerably more sense to have it confirmed. "And one day you would not mind, if he was to find his own partner?"

"Of course not," Charlotte said. "Though I'd be surprised if he ever did. He's a right pain in the arse, I imagine I'm the only one who can tolerate him, and that with repeated kicking."

Killian laughed despite himself. "Well, as I said, I won't tell anyone, though likewise, no one would think any less of you for it. Think about what I've said, lass, eh? I don't want you to have to learn all this the way I did, by falling out of the tree and hitting every branch on the way down. And if we do find Jack – tell him, all right? About his father. Or at least try. The two of you may not be lovers, but it's a hard thing you're asking of him on your behalf, and he deserves to know the truth. We'll keep our promises, we'll help free Alix if for some reason she didn't get away from Le Havre after all. You don't need to leave it all on his shoulders."

Charlotte considered, then nodded once. But as they turned toward the cabin to go in for supper, she said quietly, "You should have killed those men that were after her. If they recovered, if they caught her again, if they made sure that this time she can never get away – or God forbid, worse – you can be quite sure that I will not forget."

No, Killian considered sadly, she would not, even as he had not. And thought again of her story of killing Captain Howe, how carefully and calmly and remorselessly she had, not lost a wink of sleep over it since, and could not suppress a chill that had nothing to do with the night.

* * *

Sam was almost rethinking his commitment to vengeance by the time he made it to the top of the hill. In his defense, it was a bloody long hill, and it was also very steep, and his much-overworked legs were burning as he jogged to a halt just out of the line of sight from the mansion, well hidden in the trees. Gold appeared to have added, to say the least, a few more guards, and as Sam stared at the formidable gauntlet of steel and torches, he wondered if justice could be considered served if he just took out a few of those blokes and ran away, rather than trying to squeeze through that sphincter-clenching bit of nonsense. But almost at once, sense reasserted itself. Cowardice was the last acceptable reason for failure. It was in there, or nothing.

Sam tried to study the defenses with a practiced military eye, which was difficult since he did not actually possess one. Even he, much as it vexed him, could see that he was going to require some sort of coherent plan to get in there, and would have to know precisely what he was doing once he arrived. As well, he was extremely curious to know what exactly Billy Bones and his terrifying lady friend were doing there – they having reached the villa a few minutes ago, disembarked, and gone inside – and he would be extremely annoyed if their plan also involved killing Gold, since that was  _his_ big huzzah. Somehow, though, he did not think so. The wee Scottish prick was far more valuable alive.  _At least to them._

"Look," Jack said in his ear, making him jump. "We're not getting through that, and we'd have to fight the full house even if we did. Come  _on._ Let the other two idiots do what they're doing, and sit back and wait. If we're lucky, they'll handle it for us."

"I don't want them to handle it for us." Sam remained staring up at the walls with hot, baleful eyes. "Besides, even if they did kill him – and I don't think so – that still leaves us with another problem. I think that's Billy Bones, and as I told you in Nevis, he's the one that hates my grandpa. If he bought the maps from Mr. Kerr, the ones that could lead to Skeleton Island – well, that's you sorted, but I still have to stop him before he does whatever else he's planning."

"That's  _me_ sorted?" Jack scowled at him. "The fuck do you mean by that?"

"I mean that if he has the map, you're going to take it back to Havana and give it to Güemes like a good spy, so he knows I didn't break my word and he doesn't order me or my family hunted down. I'm not having anyone else I love endangered because of you, and then you get out of this what you came along for. See? Everybody wins."

Jack looked briefly flummoxed. "I – even if I did do that, how am I supposed to get the map, or know it's the right one? Tiptoe up behind Bones and fish it out of his pocket?"

"You're the soldier, you work it out. Punch him, or whatever."

" _Punch_ him? Did you see the size of that bloke?"

"So? You're not a French maid, you can deal with it." Sam was getting edgy at this continued delay between himself and his presumably spectacular wrath upon Gold. "Like I said, that's what you want, and you seem quite  _bloody_ resourceful. Don't hang around waiting for me to give you a goodbye kiss. Maybe if the Spaniards retrieve some of their lost treasure, they'll pipe down for a bit. They're your friends, remember?"

"They're not my friends, they – " Jack seemed to decide that no good could come of this argument. "Jesus Christ, can you just let me save your fucking life?"

Sam gave him his best impression of his grandfather's icy stare. He was not entirely sure how to answer that – he didn't  _want_ to die, but it also seemed a remote, abstract concept that had no real bearing on his actions or choices – and he knew he would be pulverized if he charged in alone, but Jack's irritating new lark as the Prick of Conscience ( _prick_  here to be understood in more ways than one) was getting on his bloody nerves. Finally he said, "If you want to help me, help me do this. Then you can do – well, I don't care, really. But first things first."

"We're still not getting in there without an army or at least several small cannons, so – "

"Oh," Sam said. "I think we are."

And with that, before Jack had time to raise any more stupid objections, Sam grabbed him in a headlock, administered a swift rabbit punch to the kidneys, and marched him out into the light of the torches. "Hey!" he bellowed. "Hey, you lot! I've got the man who attacked Lord Robert on the road the other day!"

Jack made a muffled noise and struggled energetically, almost breaking free, at which point Sam was obliged to punch him again. This at least had the effect of selling their charade somewhat more convincingly, especially since Jack had not been tipped off beforehand that it was one. Sam hung onto Jack as tenaciously as a barnacle, as the very surprised guards stared down at him. Some of them might know who he was, but all the new recruits might not, and there was a certain confused amount of muttering as they tried to decide what to do. One obvious solution presented itself, however, and within a few more moments, a few of the men were striding out, cutlasses and pistols held vigilantly at the ready, to grab hold of Jack by the scruff. As they were doing so, one of them goggled at Sam. "Wait, aren't you – "

"Aye," Sam said, putting his hands up. "That's me. I've come back to surrender."

Jack shot him an absolutely malevolent look under his tangled black hair, which Sam did his best to ignore. He had wagered that they couldn't risk shooting him before they brought him to Gold, and if they were too thick to scent something mildly suspicious about such a convenient capitulation, all the better. He was even able to feel mildly proud of himself as they were frog-marched up the lawn, though he had to see about acquiring a weapon in the near future. The logical place was to wrestle one away from the guards, but he would have to do it only when they were in front of Gold and he had a clear shot. He'd be overpowered too fast otherwise.

They passed under the portico of the governor's mansion, just as Matthew Rogers had brought them the first time, and Sam had to fight a brief sense of dislocation, the grief for Nathaniel that he had wadded into a small ball and stuffed away into the corner until this was over. He couldn't yet think about a world without his best friend, with no more adventures, with no more simple reliance that he would wake up and run down to the Hunts' house and have all be right with his world for the rest of the day. It felt like the most shattering way to leave childhood behind that could be imagined, and he didn't want to think how he'd go about telling Nathaniel's parents and Isabelle. If they blamed him, they would be well within their rights to do so. He did.  _But I'll avenge him. I'll kill Gold. I'll be able to tell them that, at least._

They reached the sitting room, and the guard holding Sam rapped briskly on the door. "M'lord? I'm sorry to interrupt, but you'll want to see this."

"Come in," a voice called sweetly. Not Gold's. A woman's.

The guard paused, then opened the door, and Sam got a good look at what appeared to be the most awkward tea party of all time. Gold, looking like a treed cat, was perched on the edge of his settle as if about to spring up and run, while Billy Bones and the dark-haired woman sat across from him in matching striped armchairs. Nobody had touched their drinks, evidently in fear of next clutching their throat and dying of poison, and the atmosphere in the room was nearly suffocating enough to be lethal on its own. Enjoyable as it was to see Gold so off his guard, that meant that his visitors (or perhaps  _visitor,_ given the way his gaze was fixed on the woman) were correspondingly more dangerous, and that was a problem. He looked up, and clearly could not even gloat as much at the sight of Sam and Jack as he would otherwise have wanted to. "Gentlemen," was finally the best he could manage. "So you've decided to grace us with your presence again, have you?

"Introduce us to your friends, Robert." The woman gave a syrupy little giggle that set Sam's teeth on edge. "You  _know_ my fondness for fine young lads, don't you?"

Gold looked as if he was about to refuse – heaven knew why, it couldn't be to protect them – and Billy casually cracked his knuckles. However clever he was at convoluted plots and evil schemes and suchlike, Robert Gold was clearly not about to hazard his physical person against a man-mountain like Bones, even with his guards standing there. "Very well," he said through gritted teeth. "Gentlemen, my sister, Lady Fiona Murray, and her recently traitorous henchman, William Fitzgilbert Bones the Fourth. My lady, sir, may I present Jack Bellamy and Samuel Jones?"

"Jones?" Billy's eyes turned sharp as a blade. "Are you Emma Swan's son?"

Sam could not see much point to denying it, especially with Gold sitting right there and ready to confirm it. "Aye," he said ungraciously. "I know you and my mum were friends once, a long time ago, before you turned into the world's biggest dick. And that's not a compliment, either."

"You're a brave little boy, aren't you?" Lady Fiona's dark eyes glittered as she took him in from head to toe. "That must have been your uncle Liam we met back in Bristol. He was also quite fond of speaking his mind to me at repeated intervals. Escaped, actually, so we're presently one Jones short, but I suspect you will do just as well. As for your friend, oh, I have  _plenty_ of ideas for him."

Jack said something in Spanish that, at least from what Sam could understand, was very, very colorful. Then he said something else, which was more so.

"Tut, tut." Lady Fiona appeared to be enjoying herself inordinately, which was always a bad thing. Sam was well aware that he was the one who had insisted on marching them in here to this veritable viper's nest, and if he was going to kill Gold, now was the moment to make his move. But it would be bloody hard to get one of the guards' rifles  _and_ a clean shot, and… well, much as he insisted to himself that he didn't care, they would almost certainly kill Jack on the spot. Not to mention, him. And he still had to do something about Billy, so he couldn't just go out in a suicidal blaze of glory after having shot Gold.  _Why didn't Jack just go down to their ship and see if Billy left the map on board, or – or whatever? Why did he have to insist on coming after me?_

"Well," Lady Fiona said, when nobody else spoke. "Pack your things, Robert. It's time to go."

"And you think I'm coming with you?" Gold's lip curled.  _"Sis?"_

"No, I don't suppose you would." Lady Fiona's dark red lips split over kittenish white teeth. "But then, you wouldn't get to see your son, would you?"

Silence crackled after these words as if in the wake of a lightning strike. Whatever color there had been in Gold's face fled, nearly that fast. He seemed to be trying to say something, but couldn't even think of how to get his tongue around it. Then he croaked only,  _"What?"_

"Oh yes. Your son. How cruel of me not to tell you earlier." Lady Fiona shook her head, dripping in faux sympathy. "His name is Gideon. Never knew about him after you were imprisoned following that little disaster on Nassau, did you? Belle wanted you far away from her  _and_ her child, so she never sent word. Then she left, which was quite sad. Wanted to see the world. But your boy had a good home. I adopted him, raised him as my own. He's done well for himself in life – he's now the lord governor of Charlestown, can you imagine? Billy here has met him, he can attest to it. Isn't that a funny little coincidence?"

Gold was too stunned to answer. His guards took a step, but he waved them off, and they subsided, confused. If he wasn't such a lying murderous bastard who was determined to destroy the world and murder everyone that anyone loved, Sam might have almost felt sorry for him. But he was, so he didn't. He couldn't deny that he was enjoying seeing someone else pull the rug out on Lord High Manipulative Wanker himself, but… anyone actually  _crazier_ than Gold, as he was fast getting the sense Lady Fiona was, possessed the ability to make things even worse for them, and… well, he still needed to take care of Billy, he didn't want to get beaten again, and he was feeling oddly guilty about getting Jack into this – but the stubborn git had had plenty of opportunities to walk away,  _plenty,_ why was he still – why were  _they_ still –

"Oh, and you," Lady Fiona said, snapping her fingers and pointing at Jack and Sam. "You two are  _absolutely_ coming with us."


	20. XX

Somewhere off to starboard, just visible as a hazy line barely distinguishable from the burgundy-dark dawn sea, was the island of Antigua, the headquarters of the Royal Navy in the Caribbean – considerably overtaxed at the moment due to the ongoing demands of the war, no doubt, but as the eighteenth century anno domini had been nothing but one war occasionally interrupted for a few years, that was hardly anything new. Emma had in fact never been there, despite the influence it had exercised on her life both directly and indirectly. She would have been hanged as a pirate if she ever had, and she had not been part of the delegation to rescue Sam, being nearly six months pregnant with Geneva at the time. Then after the war, when she and Killian had moved to Boston, the last thing he wanted to do was relieve all the hell he had been through on that island – whether learning the truth about Liam freeing them from slavery, or losing his hand, or burning and sacking it in the first violent uprising of Captain Hook, or nearly losing Sam to the noose, or the ever-present shadow of Robert Gold. Even now, she seemed to sense a faint chill from it, a poison in the air, and it ran down her spine like cold water.

Emma shivered, rubbing her arms with both hands; the air was almost crisp enough to show her breath. Most of the  _Nautilus_ was still asleep, except for the few men needed on deck to tend the sheets and the helm, yawning and clearly anticipating the sounding of the sunrise bell to change shifts, and she was almost alone, the brisk salt wind tousling her loosened hair and bringing some ghostly whiff of the island's smell. Seabirds wheeled in a distant, shrieking circle, diving and darting in a way that meant there were bodies in the water, somewhere close to shore. There were any number of possibilities for how they might have died, but it only increased Emma's desire to be out of here quickly. Even after all this time, this place was not at all likely to have forgotten Hook and Flint.

There was a creak behind her, and she turned to see Killian emerging from their cabin, looking attractively tousled and unshaven, pulling one of the blankets around his shoulders. She did not need to ask why he had woken up; he must have sensed the nearness of the place the same as her. He crossed the boards to the railing, gazing into the near distance with furrowed brow, until he finally said quietly, "It seems… smaller than I remember."

"We are quite a way out," Emma remarked wryly. "I imagine if we came any closer, it would be more than large enough."

"No bloody thank you." Killian shuddered. He made a surreptitious sign of the horns, as if warding off evil, and though she was less superstitious than other sailors, Emma could not help mimicking the gesture. They stood there, eyes drawn inexorably upward to the circling birds, until the distant smudge of land once more began to fade into the candy-colored sky. Then he said, "Well, that was closer than I ever want to be again."

Emma put her hand on his arm. After a moment she asked softly, "Have you ever forgiven yourself for it?"

"I…" Killian started to speak, then stopped. "I don't know," he said at length. "I feel as if you had asked me that before this year, I would say that I had, or at least that I had come closer. I certainly don't think about it all the time any more, and it no longer – or at least rarely – troubles my sleep. But I'm not so sure that our practice of simply not talking about the past at all has amounted to healing from it. With this, or with Charlestown, or Nassau, or Sam, or… well, with James and Miranda, I can sense it too. And, bloody hell, unquestionably with me and Liam. We were so grateful for our new life that we plunged into it headlong, never coming up for air, and that's no bad thing. It's given our children a home and a family and love and comfort and happiness that none of us ever had, I can't regret that. But maybe some more hindsight wouldn't be the worst thing in the world."

"I…" Emma paused, then nodded. "I think so too. I've talked about it with both my parents."

Killian smiled, leaning down to kiss her nose. "And I cherish the fact that you call them that, love," he said, "that that is so truly what they have become to you, as I remember the days when Flint was merely a powerful and uncertain associate, your teacher and often your ally, but just as probably a dangerous wild card. Miranda, I think, was always your mother. But – well. Whether the Lost Boys, or Regina, or Charlotte, or others, I've had a bloody lot of people calling me  _Hook_ recently, and I was upset at it, affronted. Had that sense that they shouldn't, that I had left him long ago and I did not appreciate him being called back to haunt me, the same way James has struggled with  _Flint._ But that's missing the point, I realize that now. I am Hook, I always will be, no matter how far I want to think I've gone from him. Not him alone, no, and I can mostly shut him in a trunk in the attic and keep him there. Yet I cannot cut him off forever, or proclaim he's nothing to do with me, and to try is dishonest, deceptive, hollow. So I suppose I have forgiven myself, in a way, yes. But it's not for doing what I did. It's for living with the consequences."

Emma looked up at him, her hands moving to rest on his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers. She tucked herself closer, and he put the blanket around her as well, holding her warm against him. Then he said, "The only thing I cannot help but wonder is what happened to the  _Jolie._ I'm sure Rackham and Anne had good use of her, but where she ended up – sunk or salvaged or renamed again, sold back to the Navy for all I know – I wish I knew for sure. I asked Nemo about whether he'd run across her, but he hadn't."

"I asked in Nassau." Emma circled her finger on his collarbone. "Max knew something about their fate, but she wasn't keen to say. Finally, I got it from her that Jack was captured in 1720 by the Royal Navy pirate hunter, Captain Barnet, and taken to Jamaica for trial. It was quite a spectacle – the last real pirate captain in the New World. So Jack got the notoriety he wanted after all, though perhaps not in such a fashion. He was found guilty, and hanged in Port Royal, the eighteenth of November. Anne escaped conviction because she was pregnant."

"Oh?" Killian looked sad. He and Rackham had butted heads over the captaincy of the  _Jolie Rouge,_ which the latter had opportunistically acquired following the former's decision to leave piracy for Emma and the unborn Geneva, but Rackham and Anne had helped save him from Rogers and Jennings in Nassau, and they had come to respect each other, after a fashion. He had also entrusted command of his old girl to Rackham, so Emma knew this would come as a blow. After a pause he said, "So what? Did Barnet break her up for scrap?"

"No. Max arranged for Anne and Mary Read to escape on the  _Jolie Rouge_ , after Jack's death. I don't know where they took her. Somewhere far from the Caribbean, clearly. So she could still be out there, if they're still alive. They call the pirate flag that now, did you know? The skull and crossbones ensign that Jack invented, they named it after his ship. The  _Jolly Roger."_

"Did they?" Killian smiled briefly. "Well, that's fitting, I suppose. I don't know if it would have pleased Rackham or not, to have met the same end as Charles Vane. Their time staying as pirates would always have been limited, after the battle of Nassau and Woodes Rogers bringing that place down. But at least they got to go out on their own terms."

"Aye. And I know we heard various stories of their capture or defeat, but… we always assumed they were as apocryphal as all the false reports of hanging Flint." Emma sighed. "It feels… permanent, in a way, knowing it now for sure. And with seeing Nassau restored to just another busy English trading port and territory… I don't  _want_ it to go back, not exactly. But it makes you feel the time, and the space, and what we gave up, as much as what we gained."

"It does, at that." Killian looked over his shoulder, in the direction of now-vanished Antigua. "A melancholy you can't quite put words to, a sense of the great inevitability of the universe, and all things passing away. We are old now, you know. Whether or not we meant to be. This is our children's world, and their future. It seems a bloody terrifying one, wondering if the wars will ever end, if they will in turn beat their swords to ploughshares. If they will have enough time. But it is the best we ourselves could have given them. We can take peace in that."

Emma paused, then nodded, her throat feeling somewhat too thick for words. They stood there for some time more, until the dawn bell sounded, and the night crew headed gratefully for their hammocks as the morning lot came above. Killian and Emma themselves went to breakfast with the others, who were looking more or less refreshed. "We passed by Antigua earlier, did we not?" Flint asked, with the offhand casualness of someone who knew damn well that they had. "The  _Nautilus_ is making superlative speed, and it's fewer than three hundred miles from there to Bridgetown. What do you reckon, another two days?"

"Could be that, aye." Killian slid into the chair next to his father-in-law, and Emma the one beside him, as they glanced down at the chart Flint had unrolled next to his plate. "Or less."

"I'd hope the latter," Nemo said. "There's not many that can match the  _Nautilus_ when she has the wind at her back. We could be making land in Bridgetown tomorrow afternoon."

"I should have gone about acquiring one of these," Flint remarked. "Would have put even Vane's damn  _Ranger_ to shame."

Liam harrumphed, as if to remind everyone that he  _was_ an ex-Royal Navy captain and would thus politely overlook these casual discussions of piracy, and Emma felt Killian tense, as if expecting his brother to say something sharp. She herself thought that the ongoing low-level clash owed itself to two singularly stubborn individuals who were both used to being the final authority in any given situation, and were still working out, to say the least, how they intended to share that. Flint and Liam knew each other, but not well; indeed, the only time they had met face to face was on the sandbar in the Caribbean, where Flint and Miranda were married, Geneva was born, and everyone took the fateful decision to set out for Charlestown, Nassau, and Paris. Small wonder if, for the other, more than a shadow of their former profession remained.

In any event, Regina and Miranda both gave their respective husbands a look, and peace was maintained. "So," Regina said, putting her teacup back on the saucer. "Gold?"

"He can't be that hard to manage, can he?" Charlotte asked. "He's only one man, over seventy, and presumably not immortal. If you can get me alone with him, I can likely do the rest."

"Don't underestimate him," Killian warned. "For one thing, he likely won't  _be_ alone – he's a coward, he's always liked to surround himself with power, and particularly the sort that can defend his person if the occasion arises. I know you're quite a good shot, but – "

"I've done it before," Charlotte said, glancing at him sidelong. "More or less."

"Aye, but – " Killian caught himself on whatever he was about to say. "That's – not quite the same thing, lass."

Charlotte looked as if she would be the judge of that for herself, thanks, while Emma was left to survey her husband in curiosity; she knew that he and Charlotte had been talking out on the deck before they came into supper, but was not quite sure what. Killian had said that Charlotte had asked him not to share and thus he was prepared to respect her wishes, and Emma felt that was the proper stance for a man to take, so she hadn't pressed. Still, she had to wonder what it was that both Miranda and now Killian seemed to know about their young companion. Certainly nothing dangerous or evil, but at the same time, not entirely safe either.

"He'll recognize any of us," Liam said, in a clear attempt to move the conversation on from the awkward moment. "Gold, that is. Me, Regina, Killian, or Emma especially. It would be foolhardy to send Flint after him, when he was cracked on the head the last time he went off alone. As for Miranda, I don't imagine that any of us want to risk – "

"See," Charlotte pressed. "I need to be the one to do the actual killing. You lot can get me close enough, tell me whatever I need, but I'm the only one he's certain not to know. Why not?"

"We didn't bring you along just to serve as a hired gun, lass," Killian objected. "You don't have to do that. All of us have valid reasons to hate Gold, so it's more fitting that one of us – "

"This entire trip is intended to kill him," Charlotte pointed out, more than a little coolly. "I don't think we have much space to start quibbling about the morality of it. If he ends up dead, it doesn't make a great deal of difference whether the hand that did it had a better reason than any other. Practically speaking, it makes the most sense for it to be mine. Unless you still wanted your vengeance after all, and were trying to disguise it as compassion?"

Killian opened his mouth, then shut it. Emma placed a protective hand over his arm, but he raised his own. "No, it's all right. I… can't deny I'd still bloody like to kill Gold myself, and I was lucky to have someone around to beat sense into me when I was in danger of going completely off the deep end." He inclined his head at Regina, who looked startled at this unexpected gratitude. "We could disguise ourselves. At the least, it would not be a sound tactical decision to send Charlotte off alone, on an island she doesn't know, to kill a man she's never seen, who's heavily guarded and will be on high alert for a trap, if he isat the center of this Skeleton Island and Billy Bones business as it appears. We  _have_ to work together on this."

"Killian's right," Flint said. "We all get a share in taking that bastard down."

Killian looked as if this was not  _quite_ what he had meant, but in the name of accepting the support, he would let it slide. "We might be somewhat more elderly than we were," he said, "but we're not destined for a rocking chair on the porch just yet. Bridgetown is a busy port, we can find some way to make ourselves less noticeable. After all, we didn't send one of us to do this, we sent seven. If we're going to succeed, it will be with that seven."

Glances were exchanged around the table, but nobody could gainsay this on the spot. Charlotte in particular looked dissatisfied, but scooped out a dainty bite of boiled egg and held her tongue. That, it seemed, was as close as a pre-battle strategy as they were going to get.

The wind remained strong, the  _Nautilus_ continued to fly across the miles, and it was in fact the next morning, around eight o'clock, when Killian and Emma were woken by a quick knock on the door and the information that they would be landing by midmorning. They disentangled themselves from each other (the bamboo walls were thin, but they had been making do) and got dressed, then went above, standing with Flint and Miranda at the rail and watching the distant blue-green silhouette of Barbados rise into view. It was a stunning autumn day, crisp as a red apple, the sky clear enough to see for miles in every direction and the sun slanting down like warm butter. Despite the beauty, Emma felt a brief dark and icy chill over her heart, the knowledge that – if a number of people were not deeply mistaken – they were finally here. Had reached the source of both the recent assassination attempts, and their much older ghosts. Robert Gold was somewhere on this island, waiting, and they were about to see him for the first time in decades. Even with an extensive chance to prepare themselves in advance, there was no way that could be comfortable or easy.

As promised, Nemo steered them into a hidden cove north of Bridgetown, out of sight from the main traffic entering and leaving the harbor, where they could come ashore in secret. Sparkling waves lapped on a sheltered crescent of pale pink sand, the whole world glittering like Ali Baba's cave of diamonds, as several of the  _Nautilus'_ crewmen rowed them from the anchored junk toward the beach. "Good luck," Nemo said, shaking each of their hands in turn. "I'm off to find Lancelot and the Maroons. I'll return in a fortnight or so if I can, but I can't promise."

"You've done more than enough," Emma assured him. "Please, don't risk yourself any more on our account. We can never repay you for your kindness."

"No," Killian added. "And if you do find Lancelot, send him greetings from us. Ursula as well, if she'll have them, but aye. Thank you for – for everything."

Nemo clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't lose sight of what it was for, my boy."

Killian looked down and coughed slightly, but grasped the captain's arm in return, and the seven of them, with further farewells and thanks, jumped into the warm, calf-deep water and waded ashore. The longboat reversed direction and rowed back out to the  _Nautilus,_ and they all stood there, watching her set sail again, until she disappeared around the wooded bluff. It felt oddly final to have their ride out of sight, the awareness settling in that they had come here to do a dangerous and difficult job, and would not be leaving again until it was done. There was as well the awareness, at least on Emma's part, that they might not be leaving with everyone who had come. She couldn't face the idea of losing any one of them, as they were her large and messy and loving and bickering family, drawn together again after all these years against all odds. She wanted to say something stirring, inspirational, but she couldn't quite find the words. Instead, she nodded once, reached out for Killian's hand, and started to walk.

It was a steep and slogging trek of over an hour to find the narrow, rutted cart track that cut through the jungle toward Bridgetown. Emma's breath burned in her side like a stab; it was apparently too bloody long since she'd had this kind of physical exertion. After a stiff climb, they reached a high point where they could gaze down over the place: the swaying palm trees, the quays crowded with masts and ships, the teeming docklands, the red-tiled roofs and whitewashed walls of the village, and the candy-colored houses and columned mansions of English officials and wealthy planters. Among these, there was only one ostentatious enough, and secluded enough, to draw their eye, a walled and gated villa that sprawled across the high hill, the palace for a reclusive king. Emma pointed. "That one. That has to be his."

Flint stepped up beside her, shading his eyes with a frown, then jerked a nod. Beads of sweat glinted on his forehead, which he wiped away with his sleeve, leaving a faint streak of blood in its wake. Emma turned to him, concerned for a different reason. "Did your wound – ?"

"It's fine, Emma, don't fuss." Flint glanced at Miranda, who had sunk onto a boulder, looking close to a faint. "She can't walk much further, we need to stop and rest."

"If you don't mind," Miranda managed. "My legs are not at all pleased with me. I don't think this terrain was designed with the needs of an old woman and a cane in mind."

Killian unslung the waterskin from his back and handed it to her, and Miranda took a few deep, restorative gulps, which made her face look somewhat less like an old sheet. "There," she said briskly, accepting a handkerchief to wipe her brow. "Perhaps we can flag down a carter for a ride the rest of the way? I'll find some inn in the village and keep out from underfoot."

Flint seemed briefly about to say something, then didn't. All of them took advantage of the interlude to sit in the shade and catch their breath, however, until he stood up again. "I don't want to lose too much time."

"They don't know we're coming, mate," Killian pointed out. "We're not on a schedule."

"Let's hope they don't," Flint said darkly, checking the pistols strapped to his coat. "But it would be foolish to assume that Gold has no idea at all that we might turn up. He's likely put some nasty surprise in place in case of just this. Wasn't there also some chance he might have Sam?"

"He might," Emma admitted uneasily. The thought made her stand up as well. "Let's go."

After a pause, the others followed suit, and as no convenient carter appeared to convey them down the hill, Liam hoisted Miranda onto his back. The two of them knew each other better than did Liam and Flint, as they and Regina had survived a voyage to Jamaica, capture by Henry Jennings, and then escaping the  _Bathsheba_ only to face a harrowing storm at sea and several days adrift. They had been in pursuit of a pardon for Emma at the time, which she had then made Liam himself take in order to spirit Henry and Geneva away to France, and the memory brushed its cold fingers on the back of her neck. She shook it off, and once more took the lead.

It was early afternoon by the time they finally tramped down into Bridgetown, grubby and footsore and nobody feeling up to an instant Gold-killing expedition anyway. They repaired to a quayside inn that catered to travelers, where their bedraggled appearance would not be the cause of any (or at least not much) notice, and paid for two rooms, Killian, Emma, Liam, and Regina taking one and Flint, Miranda, and Charlotte the other. Emma sank down onto the bed, suddenly aware that she was exhausted. Yet the chance, however remote, that her son might be on the island somewhere chased away any possibility of sleep. "Do you think we could make it into the villa tonight?"

"We could try, I suppose." Killian's eyes met hers, and she knew that he was also thinking of Sam, that both of them were prepared to take risks if it meant getting to him. "Or at least ask around and see if there's been any news of arrivals, or strange rumors, or the like. At least know what we're getting into before we rush headlong."

Emma admired this attempt to be objective and thorough, even as she paradoxically resented it. She knew he was right, however, and once they had washed the dust off and made themselves look at least somewhat less vagabond, they ventured down the stairs a few at a time, not wanting to draw attention with the sudden advent of a full group. They got drinks from the bar and, as casually as possible, asked what the tidings were. They had just made port, had business to do here, and if there was anything the tavern keeper had heard about, say, Lord Robert Gold –

The man gave them the suspicious look of someone who knew he was being shaken down for information somehow, and turned his back on them. If he had had a bad experience or three being caught passing tidbits about Gold before, he would be in no hurry to offer it to strangers, but Emma still wanted to demand that he at least give them something. She leaned over the scarred wood of the bar. "Look, you – it's  _important,_ we can pay, we can – "

"I beg your pardon?" a voice said behind her. "You are enquiring after His Excellency, madam?"

Emma turned – and then felt a momentary rush of vertigo so strong it almost knocked her back into the wood. The man was younger, had no scar on his cheek, and was wearing the blue jacket of a Navy captain rather than fine dove-grey silk. However, the resemblance was strong enough to punch the startled word out of her before she could stop it.  _"Rogers?"_

"Excuse me?" The young doppelgänger of Captain Woodes Rogers stared at her. "Are we acquainted, madam?"

At that, Killian turned around – and the same look of shock crossed his face before he could stop it. He had known Rogers in Bristol shipping circles, when he was in the Navy, before they crossed paths again, fatefully, in Nassau, and Rogers and Jennings had tortured him for information. He managed not to say anything, but the damage was already done. The young man's gaze flickered between them, as if their names were on the tip of his tongue and he would recall them momentarily. For her part, Emma could make out something of Eleanor Guthrie in the face and chin and the set of the mouth, and it occurred to her all at once whose son this had to be. He made an infinitely correct half-bow, hand on his heart. "Captain Matthew Rogers of HMS  _Griffin_ at your service. And you would be?"

"Mrs…" Emma fished for a name at short notice. "Mrs. Barlow."

"Charmed. And this would be Mr. Barlow, I presume?" Matthew Rogers flicked those viper eyes at Killian. "Are you newly arrived in Bridgetown, then?"

"We… we are, yes."

"And on what errand?"

"Family business. Not at all interesting, I'm afraid. But if you happen to have – "

"Yes, I did hear your enquiry earlier." Matthew cocked his head. "Asking about Robert Gold, were you? How interesting. Why was that, madam?"

 _Jesus Christ, he's just like his bloody father._ Emma told herself that she was quite a fool to be unsettled by a man barely her daughter's age, took a breath, and managed a winsome smile. "He's quite important here, isn't he? Of course it would be useful if we were to ascertain his present dealings and dispositions, before we tried – "

"What's going on here?" another voice said, and before she could wave him frantically off, Flint appeared through the crowd. His gaze locked straight with Matthew Rogers', his mouth opened and shut, and he shot half a wild look at Emma and Killian, as if to ask if they too had seen it. Matthew, for his part, was observing this as coolly as a hawk, judging the moment of his pounce with consummate accuracy. Flint shut his mouth with a snap. "And – you are?"

"Please," Matthew said pleasantly. "Who do you think I am?"

"I have no idea."

"And you, sir, are a poor liar. These would be – ?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Barlow," Emma interrupted. "As we said. This is my father."

She had no idea if Matthew believed this or not; it was completely impossible to tell. The young captain surveyed the old pirate from head to toe, paying particular attention to the dried streak of blood on his forehead. "Have you recently been injured, Mr. – ?"

"Hamilton," Flint said, after a slight pause. "My name is Edward Hamilton. And my health is quite satisfactory, but I appreciate your concern for it."

"Edward Hamilton." Rogers considered that, then held out his hand. "May I see your travel papers, please?"

"We had them checked by the port factor when we landed."

"And that was today?"

"Yes."

"Given as I have myself spent all afternoon questioning that same port factor," Rogers said, still pleasantly, "I happen to know for a fact that you are lying. But a gentleman such as yourself, on such important business, would have them, of course? Letters of credit, or introduction, or the paperwork for his plantation interests? Not to mention, of course, a document certifying so much as his own Christian name?"

Flint looked briefly and mortally insulted at the idea that he resembled an English plantation owner in any capacity. Still, however, he managed not to say so. Instead, he crossed his arms, staring down his nose at the younger man, "I said, we had them checked."

"And I said, sir, that you are – if not lying outright – bending the truth to its fullest extent. Not to mention, your daughter called me by my own surname earlier. You recognized me?"

"I – " Emma began. "I – we – "

"Knew your father," Killian put in. "I knew your father. In Bristol. We were – were in the same shipping circles together. Attended the same dinner parties, that sort of thing."

"He must have left quite an impression, for you to be so certain of my identity all these years later, and so startled." Rogers looked at Killian's left hand, wooden and stiff in its black glove, which he was wearing in place of the hook. "What happened to your hand, sir?"

"It – old war injury." Killian shifted, as if to move it out of sight without being obvious. "I'm sure you don't want to listen to another old man wheeze on about the glory days and – "

"Oh, no," Rogers said. "I find myself quite enthralled. Please go on, Mr. Barlow. How did you lose your hand?"

There was a long and hideous silence. Finally Killian said, "A man cut it off."

"That could be presumed with all injuries of the sort, yes." To judge from the faint color starting to flood his cheekbones, Rogers was growing tired of elusiveness and mealy-mouthing. "I shall give you one more chance, and one chance only.  _Give me your papers."_

Flint made a motion as if he was about to go for one of the pistols in his jacket, and Emma seized his arm – pulling a gun on a Royal Navy captain, especially  _this_ Royal Navy captain, in the middle of a crowded tavern in Bridgetown would be absolutely disastrous. She recalled Killian saying that Gold had sailed here on a ship commanded by one M. Rogers, but nobody could have logically expected him to still be here, much less in the same lodging house! Not to mention, that he would then prove to be the same sort of icy, unflinching, unblinking make as his father, clearly have more than a whiff of their true identities, and thus –

"If you don't believe we are who we say," Flint said, "who the fuck do you think we are?"

Matthew smiled, as if he had been waiting for precisely this question. "Since you are so good as to ask, I will tell you. I suspect you yourself, sir, to be the notorious pirate Captain Flint, who ransacked and terrorized the Caribbean from Trinidad to Tortuga for a decade, and this to be Killian Jones, alias Captain Hook, who took part in similar crimes, though on a somewhat abbreviated timescale. The woman would be his wife and your adopted daughter, Emma Swan, then known as a pirate captain in her own right. So tell me, am I wrong?"

Flint's jaw dropped, though Emma thought they had been massive fools to underestimate, even for a moment, the offspring of two such cutthroats as Woodes Rogers and Eleanor Guthrie. The hideous silence made its return. Then finally Flint grated out, "Clever little bastard, aren't you?"

"I had my reasons," Matthew said, coldly composed. "Very well. If you are wondering, Robert Gold is not here. I have been asking questions for the last several days, and it has proven exceptionally difficult to unravel the circumstances of his disappearance. All I have made out for certain is that he seems to have left in the company of a woman and a tall man, at some deeply unsociable hour so their departure was not witnessed but by a scattered few. Further questions have given the woman's name as Lady Fiona Murray, purportedly his sister. You would not, of course, not know anything about such a fortuitous occurrence?"

Emma bit her tongue on what she had been about to blurt out, which was that apparently Lady Fiona  _had_ made it here after all – and while "tall man" could theoretically apply to much of the male population, she knew it didn't. Billy had been here as well, they had missed him by less than a week, and the two of them had either coerced or convinced Gold to go with them. Whether to Skeleton Island, or a new destination altogether, it was difficult to say. She looked at Killian, who said, "Lady Murray's vessel. Would it be a two-masted brigantine, black? Called  _Faerie Queen_ or  _Titania_ or something of the sort?"

"Called  _Titania_ according to the docking register, yes." Matthew eyed him narrowly. "Is Lady Fiona an associate of yours, then? Is this a confession?"

"She's no bloody associate of mine, she's our enemy. She kidnapped my – someone, and then that vessel fired on us at sea, where he managed to escape to us. That's how I know it. Why were you expecting to see us?"

Matthew paused, then shrugged. "Because of your son, of course."

That certainly got a reaction out of all of them, even as Miranda, Charlotte, Liam, and Regina had started to gravitate in their direction, seeing the other three detained in conversing with this threatening-looking individual. "You – " It was very hard for Emma to keep her voice even. "What about my son?"

"I met him," Matthew said. "Pulled him and his even less savory friend out of the water near Nevis, where I was given some tale about a Portuguese mercenary named Da Souza throwing him in. I then transported them here with me, for Lord Robert's inspection."

"We met the Portuguese mercenary already," Emma said through gritted teeth. "And yes, he threw Sam in, so that's true. But you – you brought my son here? To  _Gold?"_

"Lord Robert is my employer and has been generous with my sponsorship." Matthew shifted slightly, as if to have his sword in reach. "And he has had a particular interest in locating your family, with which he felt your son could assist him."

" _Where's Sam, you – "_

Killian gripped Emma's arm hard, as she had been on the brink of flying at him like a harpy. Belatedly, she wrestled herself back under control, more or less. "Where's Sam?"

Matthew Rogers shrugged. "I do not know. There was an incident at the governor's mansion, a boy was shot while trying to escape. They found a body later in the woods. It could have been him, I cannot say."

Emma moaned, hand over her mouth, feeling as if she was about to be sick, as Kililan's grip tightened around her waist. She grappled for her long-enduring maternal sense that Sam was still alive, that she would just know if he wasn't, and found it, however faintly, the only thing that kept her back from full-out panic. Then Charlotte's voice said, "Who was this friend?"

Matthew turned on his heel, clearly prepared for another crisp retort, saw her, and seemed momentarily at a loss for words. Then he gathered himself. "An ill-mannered and violent scoundrel, madam. His proper name turned out to be Jack, of some pirate blood himself."

Charlotte raised both eyebrows, as if to say that this, to be fair, was not the most inaccurate description of her beloved spouse. Emma, however, could not help but be struck by the last part. "What do you mean, of some pirate blood himself?"

"I mean he was quite enough of a villain for it not to be surprising in the least." Matthew sounded curt and irritated. "I daresay I have given you far more information than you merit, in fact. And since I cannot help but suspect that your intentions on this island are likewise, you can come along peaceably to the  _Griffin_ to explain yourself in full, or you can – "

"Please," Emma said desperately. "I just want to find my son."

Matthew considered her for a long, fraught moment. His eyes flickered back to Charlotte, seemingly despite himself, and she tossed her brown curls over her shoulder and gave him a sweet smile. Then he said, "If your son and your… scoundrel were removed along with Lord Robert, it could be that our interests in finding them are united, I grant. Thus – "

"Spare us," Flint said. "You'd allow us to come along, then turn the tables, trap us like hares in a snare, and offer us up to Lord fucking Robert with a bow on top. We've no interest in a bargain."

"You flatter yourself beyond measure to think I was offering one," Matthew said, even more frostily. "If you know who I am, or who my father was, you can well discern our opinions on pirates, especially you. It would be considerable simplicity for me to shout for the bailiff right now, and Bridgetown would have – what, at least three pairs of pirate boots swinging over the harbor by morning? Does anything of that strike you?"

"Yes," Emma said, after a pause. "You're not shouting for the bailiff."

Matthew looked as if he had been going in a different direction with that, but could not muster an immediate riposte. Then he said, "I do not think Lord Robert left willingly, and there is no way you don't know anything about his captors. Lady Fiona Murray and – ?"

"Bones," Flint supplied in a growl. "Billy Bones."

"Thank you. My point exactly. Therefore, as I said, you can come with me on the  _Griffin_ as my guests, and offer me such intelligence as to pay for your passage. Or – "

"Or what? You'll hang the lot of us?"

"No," Matthew seemed almost amused. "I will presume that you are content to sit in Bridgetown as I sail away toward Robert Gold  _and_ your son, and to not attempt to influence that trajectory in the least. Somehow, I doubt you will be at ease with it."

Emma and Killian exchanged a slightly aghast look. It was true that they had no proof that Sam and Jack had been taken with Gold, but it seemed ludicrously foolish to assume that Lady Fiona, if she had come across them, would just let two such valuable hostages (or at least one valuable hostage) slip through her fingers. They  _could_ call Matthew a liar, thumb him off, search Barbados with a fine-toothed comb in hope that Sam was hiding in some convenient cave, and take the risk that Matthew Rogers, Robert Gold, Fiona Murray,  _and_ Billy Bones, of all the fearsome foursome of formidable foes, were not closing him in the jaws of their various traps. Nemo was not due back for at least another fortnight, if that, and they had no other certain passage off Barbados until then. Make the wrong decision here, and they essentially wrote their youngest son's obituary and chose a nice headstone.

"So – what?" Killian said at last. "You're offering to work with us?"

"You have information I need. I have a ship and a possible chance of reaching your son. Is that not how this works?" Matthew looked at him flatly. "Your son tried to convince me to help him escape, did you know that? Very… brash, that one. Unadvisedly so, really. But if you are, as he says and you say, truly reformed and honest private citizens, who have left your marauding ways behind long ago, you should have no hesitation about traveling with me on the  _Griffin._ I would, of course, have no call to punish the innocent. Or are you guilty?"

There was a pause filled with the sound of all of them trying to work their way out of it. Then Liam offered, "Regina and I will stay behind, if you want. We can search the island, if Sam might be here somewhere. Or we could – "

"No," Killian said. "I don't want to split up again."

"But if your son is – "

"He's not," Emma said. It felt like a weight in her chest, a void and an opened wound where something had once more been torn away from her. "He's not here."

They all looked at her awkwardly, not quite certain whether to believe her, but just as uncertain whether she was wrong. The prospect was dangerous, absurdly so, but sitting on Barbados and letting it happen, far away and out of their control, was worse. Forcing herself to look him in the eye, Emma held out her hand. "Captain Rogers," she said. "We'd be delighted to come along."

* * *

Once they had been marched aboard the  _Titania_ and locked in one of the tiny two-person officers' berths, Sam decided that however bad this looked – and it did, in fact, look very, very bad – things could still be a great deal worse. For one, he had expected them to be chucked directly in the brig, so this was already an improvement, and for two, this was more extended access to both Gold and Billy than he had possibly hoped to enjoy. Of course, he couldn't exactly sneak out of here and stab them in the night (or rather he  _could,_ but then something very bad would happen to him, unless he was prepared to repeat his swan dive into the Caribbean Sea), but he could think of something. They were at hand, the law of averages seemed to dictate that he had at least a fifty percent shot at one of them, and that was better odds than he had been operating under for most of this godforsaken adventure to date. It owed him fucking  _something._

The downside of this, of course, was being locked in a tiny berth with Jack Bellamy, who had been staring an evil hole through his head for at least the last ten minutes. As this was hardly different from Jack's usual behavior, Sam's instinct was to ignore it, but he could sense this disapproval particularly. It was true that they would not be in this fix if Sam had not grabbed him and strolled straight up to Gold's guards to announce their surrender, but as Sam had given him multiple opportunities to skip town before – had done his damndest to go it alone, in fact, only for Jack to keep popping up like a persistent foot fungus and ruin everything – he did not have much room to throw stones.  _As if that's ever bloody stopped him before?_

They could hear distant thumps and clatters as the crew winched up the anchor and prepared to set sail for wherever nefarious place they were bound. Skeleton Island seemed likely, though Sam supposed they would find out soon enough and then wish they hadn't. He was not about to waste undue time speculating. His clothes were filthy enough to practically stand up on their own, still covered in Nathaniel's dried blood, mud, sweat, tropical muck, rainwater, dust, and everything else. By the looks of things, there might be some fresh linen in the trunk, but Sam did not want to accept anything, even indirectly, from their captors. This resolve would probably not withstand a night of hunger, but he'd try.

At last, there was a final jerk and a bump that felt like casting off, and the ship began to move. Sam stumbled and put out an instinctive hand to keep his balance, which caught Jack's arm instead. They both pulled away as fast as if from a hot stove, could not avoid eye contact in time, and stared each other down instead. Then Jack said, "I didn't think your ideas could actually get worse, but you have managed to surprise me. Well done."

"Oh, shut it. You could have left long ago." Sam was the furthest thing from in the mood for another one of Jack's dressing-downs. Not that he could actually avoid it, if Jack started in, but still. Finally deciding that a clean shirt was preferable to marinating in his own filth, he went to the trunk, threw it open, and jerked the dirty one off over his head. He rooted around, pulled out another one, and shrugged it on, then turned back. "There. Knock yourself out, mate."

Jack didn't move. "I'm fine."

This, in Sam's opinion, was really crossing the brink into deliberate and wildly disproportionate obstinacy. "What, too good for it now? Yours is just as dirty as mine."

"It's not that dirty."

"It's bloody dirty."

"I'll wash it later." Jack glanced away. "Look, we've larger worries, don't – "

"Yes, because they're liable to let you out of here to do your laundry." Sam could feel his cheeks starting to heat. "What, afraid I'd – I don't know, leap on you, do something stupid? I already told you, I don't – "

"Just  _shut up."_ Jack folded his arms tightly. He looked angry, but there was something odd about his expression, his refusal to meet Sam's eyes, that seemed almost fragile. It wasn't because he was trying to spite him, Sam thought suddenly. There was something else, something vulnerable, and given some of their recent misadventures, Jack's reaction, and what little Sam knew about his past, there was one likely reason. Sam hoped it wasn't, but he had a sinking feeling.

"You have scars," he said, as flatly and coolly as he could. "You have scars, and you don't want me to see them."

Jack's shoulders rattled with a constrained shudder. "Fine," he said, after as long as he could possibly hold out, just as coldly. "Yes. And you'd ask a thousand questions, you'd yammer on, and I – I just didn't want to bloody listen to your nonsense for once, all right?"

"As I said. The door was there, long ago." Sam lifted his chin, looking back at him. "What do you want me to do, close my eyes? Or would that just – "

Jack shoved him aside, strode to the trunk, and snatched a shirt out as if girding for battle. Then he hauled his own completely filthy garment off, balled it up, and threw it as if it had personally affronted him. As he did, Sam caught a glimpse of his back in the dim light of the lantern. It was striped from the nape of the neck to almost the base of the spine with faint, twisted, white lines, measured precisely an inch or so apart, which was almost worse than if they were wild and tangled. Someone had planned and positioned each one of those strokes, someone had been thorough and deliberate about their infliction, and despite himself, despite all his anger, Sam sucked in a horrified breath. "Jesus Christ."

Jack gave him a searing look, daring him to say another word, and Sam bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood. Jack was about to pull on the fresh shirt, but he didn't move, staring at the wall. Then he said abruptly, "Carriage whip."

"Wh – what?"

"Carriage whip," Jack repeated, as if determined to see if Sam would flinch again. "I was twelve."

Sam tried to think of any possible responses to this, but they all seemed ridiculously, risibly inadequate. He knew he wasn't supposed to react in any measurable way, that he was supposed to just forget it ever happened, but to hell with that. "That's really why you were so angry about them flogging me on the  _Griffin,_ " he said. "It wasn't just about the Navy mistreating me. It was… personal."

"Aye." Jack must have seen no point in denying it. He blew out a breath. "Go on, ask. You know you want to. Get it the fuck over with."

"If you want to tell me, tell me. Otherwise, don't. I'm not playing a game on this."

Jack considered him for a long moment. He raised a hand and scrubbed it across his face, through his loosened hair, then dropped it, whirling away as if trying to work himself up to something. Finally he said, "As noted. I was twelve. Howe's name was up for a possible promotion to commodore. He had invited the Lords of the Admiralty for a fancy supper, full pomp and circumstance, the lot. This left him, however, with the problem of what to do about me. He assuredly did not want me anywhere near such vaunted company, but the rumor had made the rounds in London that there was a young lad living with Howe and his wife, so he couldn't hide me away either. Finally, I was informed that I was to be allowed to attend the supper, as part of the gentleman's education he was charitably providing me, on condition that I lie about my origin if anyone should ask who I was. I was to say that I was an orphan taken in by the Christian goodness of Captain and Mrs. Howe, and that they gave me everything I wanted."

Sam was already sure this story was going nowhere good, but morbid curiosity was too strong to be denied. He waited, not saying a word.

"So," Jack said, with half a shrug. "They dressed me up, we went down and received the guests, Howe fawned over them and poured them plenty of quality drink. After supper was over, Howe kept trying to send me off to bed, but one of the lords found me a likely lad, and insisted that I stay. Wanted to know had I considered a career in the Navy as well, that sort of thing. I said I'd rather die."

Jack closed his eyes hard, then opened them. "You could have heard a pin drop," he went on, with a good effort at dispassion. "Howe said it was clear I had had a bit too much for a boy, I said I hadn't drunk anything all evening. He ordered me to go to bed immediately and that I'd be in for it later, and I yelled back that that was the same as ever, he was a vicious evil brute and I hated him. He was still desperately trying to assure the Admiralty lords that I was a very troubled youth and it could be a trial caring for me, when I interrupted. I told them the truth. As much as I understood it, at the time. That I was his bastard son, he had taken me from the country when I was quite young, and expected me to be grateful for what he'd done to me."

"Jesus," Sam said. "Look, you don't have to tell me the rest, I can guess, if you – "

Jack ignored him. "I will never forget the looks on their faces. Those fucking bloody hypocrites – they knew exactly what sort of master he was on his own ship, and they were offering a promotion for it. I think they were more affronted that he had an illegitimate child and lied to them about it. There was quite a bit of shouting, a scuffle, the servants came running, and the Admiralty lords left very abruptly. Needless to say, Howe received a letter later that very night informing him that he had been disqualified from consideration."

Sam winced. He could not remotely picture his own father doing something like that to him, and shrank from even contemplating it. He looked back at Jack, but Jack had closed his eyes again, standing frozen in the middle of the room, still shirtless. Then he said, "I wasn't asleep. I was lying awake. I knew he'd come up sooner or later, I wasn't going to be caught off guard. I heard the messenger arrive, and Howe shouting, and then his footsteps on the stairs, so I decided that this time, I was going to fight back. I grabbed a heavy candlestick and lay in wait behind the door, and – "

He stopped again, knuckling his hand viciously over his eyes. He was silent so long that Sam thought he was done, but then Jack said, "I can't actually remember most of what happened after that. It's just… not there. I do know that he ordered me to say I was grateful. He wasn't going to stop until I said I was grateful. And I didn't, so he measured out another stroke, and I… I don't know why I didn't just say it. Why I didn't lie earlier. Maybe it would have been different, maybe if he'd gotten the promotion, if I… I could have just said it, but I didn't."

Sam took an uncertain step. There wasn't much room to start with, but he edged closer anyway, reaching out and putting a tentative hand on Jack's arm. It was tense and hard as corded wood, and Jack pulled back as if Sam had hit him too. "There," he said bleakly. "Satisfied?"

"The – the  _fuck_ would I be satisfied with that? That's – " Sam struggled for the words, even as he was well aware that the last thing in the world Jack needed on this was his opinion. "That's – Jesus. I hope he burns in hell."

"I intend to send him there directly, yes." Jack seemed to return to himself, pulled on the clean shirt, and shook out his hair, combing his fingers through it. "You see, he still wants that promotion, and with the war, they're hard up for captains, even old ones. He's out here somewhere, I know it. That was most of why I joined the Spaniards. I'll find him, and I'll kill him."

"And you told me it was a fool idea to take revenge on Gold!"

"No, I said it was a fool idea to try it without a solid plan, and that we had to think it through. Besides, there's the fact that between the two of us, I know what I'm doing. You try to kill him, you'll just make a dog's breakfast of it, so you should – "

"What? Let  _you_ kill him for me? Is that what you were going to say?" Sam frowned. "Bloody hell, like you'd ever let anyone else end Howe for you? He's your demon. Gold is mine."

Jack started to say something, then stopped. They were still standing quite close to each other, and Sam tried not to show the hammering of his heart. Of all the bloody terrible times to remember – before it had all gone to hell on that far-distant morning of his birthday, which felt like another lifetime altogether – that he was unfortunately and regrettably very attracted to the arsehole, this had to be the worst. He could almost see the small vibrations in the air around Jack, the slight shifts of the space he took up, and his fingers burned with the urge to lay them against Jack's cheek. This would doubtless be followed with some stupid comment on Jack's part, but… if he  _had_ stayed for any other reason than just to continue making Sam's life difficult more conveniently… then again, it was still not permissible to kiss him, or vice versa. Jack might not respect Charlotte enough to remain faithful to her, but Sam was not going to assist him in said infidelity. His parents had, for better or worse, raised him better than that.

Thinking of that, and the fact that Gold was probably right across the way, of all the mood-killers, Sam forced himself to step back. Their eyes remained on the other, fraught with things unspoken, and Jack's throat moved visibly as he swallowed. Then he turned away, as if determined to insist that they just get on with it, and Sam reluctantly followed suit.

For lack of anything better to do, and because it was late and they were both exhausted, they lay down for a few hours, crammed onto the small bunks and (on Sam's part, at least) trying to think about anything except how sorely he wanted to throttle – or, well, not throttle – his companion. He could hear Jack's breathing, perhaps a bit too deliberately slow to be genuine, and tried not to toss and turn, not least because he'd fall off the damn thing if he did. Jack's story kept running through his head.  _I don't know why I didn't just say it._ The image Sam kept conjuring up, a twelve-year-old boy trying to fight a grown man in the darkness, the crack of a carriage whip.  _Say you're grateful. Say it!_ And Jack still refusing, and another stripe carved down his back. How long had it taken to mend? Did anyone in that house of horrors give a damn that this was happening under its roof? How could they just – how could they just not look?

Sam shifted again, this time with repressed rage rather than frustrated lust. Hatred was running through him like poison.  _If I found Howe first, I could just add him to the list._ Jack clearly didn't think he had it in him to actually cold-bloodedly and directly kill anyone, or that he'd muck it up somehow, but Jack was wrong. If Gold  _was_ belowdecks with them – well, they were locked in, but that couldn't be any sort of an insurmountable obstacle. His enemy was here somewhere, alone. Unguarded, without his usual guards and weapons and tricks. All but defenseless.

Sam paused, then sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and slithered down, making his way across the floor, when he heard Jack break off his feigned sleep. "Where are you going?"

"I'm… taking a piss."

"You are not taking a piss."

"Just…" Sam wrestled with his usual feeling of exasperation when it came to Jack, which seemed to have returned rather quickly. "Just let me try something, all right?"

"Look, it's not going to – "

Whatever else Jack was about to say was cut off, as both of them heard footsteps coming down the narrow gantry. Sam turned and scuttled back into bed, doing his best to look nonchalant, as the footsteps reached their cell and the lock rattled. "You two."

It was Billy Bones. Sam supposed it was considerably too much to hope for that he had had a sudden change of heart, and felt like setting them free. After a moment he said, "Willy Bones."

Billy snorted. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. "Her ladyship wants to talk to you."

"Well," Sam said. "We don't want to talk to her. Toddle along like a good evil henchman."

Silhouetted in shadow, Billy was – well, he was always obnoxiously tall, but he looked like a proper demon, huge and hunched and menacing. "I don't  _want_ to have to hit you."

"I'd just as soon you didn't either." Sam stared back at him. Defiance in this situation was going to get him a grand total of nothing whatsoever, but he was determined not to hop to at Lady Fiona Murray's beck and call. He wondered how much Billy saw him as Emma Swan's son, or as Captain Flint's grandson, and which of those impulses were going to come out on top. "Or at least bloody wait until morning, it's – "

"Now," Billy repeated. "Or it's not pleasant for you."

"Right, I see. You really are a humorless, self-righteous bastard."

Billy didn't answer. Just marched in, seized Sam by the scruff of the neck, and hoisted him off his feet, shoving him out the door and into the colder air of the hold, as Jack jumped up and ran after them. With Billy half-dragging Sam, who struggled to free himself without success, they made their way up the ladder, into the grey-pink predawn, and across the deck to Lady Fiona's cabin. Whatever was going to happen in there, Sam very much doubted that it would involve good times and happy memories, and in fact would not be surprised if she followed Matthew Rogers' lead in the beating-the-shit-out-of-him department. What good that was going to do her, who knew, but who expected these people to be  _reasonable_ about the slightest –

Billy pushed him through the door, Jack hard on their heels, and cleared his throat. "The lads, Lady Murray."

"Thank you, Billy." Lady Fiona was sitting in a chair by the desk, hair down, wearing a peacock-embroidered dressing gown. "You may go."

Billy offered a stiff nod and left, shutting the door behind him with a rather ominous-sounding thunk. Sam straightened up, resisting a sudden nervous urge to grab for Jack's hand, and really,  _really_ hoping that Lady Fiona had not had them fetched for a bit of fun with the handsome young things so conveniently on board. (Handsome, good-looking, nobly striking, what-bloody-ever, shut up.) Finally he said bravely, "If you're going to kill us, just get it over with."

"Kill you?" Lady Fiona arched an eyebrow. "And why exactly would I intend to do that?"

"Dunno," Sam said. "You're a crazy old bat, could be any reason."

She smiled, at least with her mouth, as her eyes remained two hard black chips of onyx. "There's nothing more unfortunate in life than a pretty young lad with terrible manners. But tell me, sweet Sam. How old do you think I am?"

Sam hesitated. He was well aware that you were never supposed to ask or guess a lady's age, though as she had just noted his lack of manners, perhaps she was expecting him to insult her. "Dunno," he said again. "Fifty? Well-preserved sixty?"

That appeared to entertain her. "Sixty? How sweet. Would you believe eighty?"

Sam, despite himself, was caught on the hop. She looked older than you'd think for all that girlish simper and frippery, but bloody well not that old.  _"Eighty?"_

"Indeed." She gave a little chuckle that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "I am Robert's  _older_ sister, you know. And I daresay he's showing his age far more than I am mine. I've investigated all sorts of potions, alchemical concoctions, the like, but the best one, you see, requires a certain ingredient. Have you heard of the countess Elizabeth Bathory, of Hungary? She preferred nubile young women, but my taste is for young gentlemen like yourself. So how about you be very obliging, and give me a drop or two?"

Sam stared at her. "I – what?"

Lady Fiona nodded to a goblet on the desk, which was smoking slightly. "The key ingredient," she repeated, as if to a particularly dull pupil. "For the elixir. The blood of a virgin – male or female, it doesn't matter, but youth and purity are the key parts. And anyone could tell with a single glance at you, my dear, that you  _are_  a virgin."

Sam opened his mouth very wide, not even sure what part of that statement was the most offensive – that she wanted to drink his blood like the complete lunatic she was, or that one look was apparently enough to confirm his sexual incompetence. "I," he sputtered. "I – you – you can't, you're completely – "

"He's not," Jack interrupted. "You're mistaken."

"He's not what?"

"Not a virgin." Jack looked her dead in the eye. "Take it from me."

While Sam was still uttering a noise like a stepped-on bladder, Lady Fiona looked somewhat intrigued. "Oh?  _Really?"_

"Aye." Jack reached out, put his hand on Sam's arse (causing another noise, this one of an even more embarrassing register) and scooped him into his side. "So bark up another tree."

Lady Fiona considered them for a long moment, until her eyes narrowed. "I don't believe it."

"If you say so." Jack shrugged. "I've fucked him over a barrel, though."

"Yeah," Sam said. "He has absolutely done that."

Lady Fiona's gaze flickered back and forth between them. Sam was tempted to ask what happened if she put the blood of a  _non-_ virgin in her refreshing evil beverage (wither up and turn to dust, or was that too much to hope for?) and he wasn't sure that it wouldn't have been easier to just go with the pretense. Not that he was at all interested in donating vital fluids to this mad old hag, but at least it would have kept her thinking that they were useful. He didn't like the way her eyes had turned back to a sepulcher, her lips thin and grim. But blurting out the truth would tip her off that they had been lying, and then she might just decide to cut his throat and have the lot for good measure. He had absolutely bugger-all (possibly literally) idea what to do.

At last, Lady Fiona smiled, which twisted her face into a skull mask. "It would be remiss of me, of course," she said, "to question the bond of such devoted lovers. Alexander and Hephaestion could not hope to hold a candle. Very well, I'll have Billy take you back below. You can at least enjoy it together, I suppose. While you can."

"Oh?" It was official. Sam did not like this at all.

"Oh yes." She smiled again. "Sleep tight, children. You'll find out soon enough."


	21. XXI

The sun was rising slowly behind them, painting blood-red tracks on the boards and matching the steady trickle from the ruin of Job Anderson's head, as Geneva Jones sat with her back against the railing, stared at her hands on her knees, and felt only a detached, mild interest, as if they were glassed-up objects on display in some mad genius's lair. She supposed that she should get up and do something, but in the first case, fucked if she knew what that was, and in the second, the  _Hispaniola_ was already under the impression that they had the  _Rose's_ captain aboard. It could possibly look rather queer if someone else were to start striding around and giving the orders – especially her. Anderson's words still rattled in her head like hot marbles, unable to be dislodged or destroyed.  _Think it's time you go back to your dollies and your embroidery, little lady. The_ Rose _is going to get a real man's hand to master her._

Intellectually, Geneva was aware that this was complete bollocks, that she was no less good at what she did just because she had been challenged by an obnoxious man with a loud voice, and that if this Lord Gideon Murray was of a temperament to help them rather than being just another in what she had become convinced was their slow-motion descent through the poet Dante's circles of hell, they could yet get out of this. Her heart was less sure. After having everything she thought she knew about herself, her past, her family, and especially her father upended in such short order, she could no longer return to comforting old certainties. She  _knew_ Daddy had been a pirate, she  _knew_ all of them had, but that man Silver had described, the merciless Captain Hook, who had killed his own old friend in cold blood, who was willing to take the war as far as it could go and then some… not  _her_ father, not the gentle, wry, clever, loving man she knew, who had taught her to sail since the moment she could walk, when the memory of the look on his face when she became captain of the  _Rose_ at eighteen could still light up her world. That had to be a different Captain Hook.

 _He's still the same man,_ Geneva tried to reason with herself.  _Nothing about what he did has changed, only what you knew about it._ As well, she felt, just as she always had, that their family's life of sober, productive, peaceful probity for twenty-odd years must outweigh their violent hell-raising prior to it. Even that hell-raising, however, had been against tyrants and thieves and madmen and murderers, the same names that the civilized world called the pirates of New Providence. It had been glorious in memory, it had been easy, it had been strong. Now it all fell apart in a morass of broken pieces that cut her when she tried to pick them up and put them back, and no easy or clearly drawn or straightforward answers whatsoever.

Geneva closed her eyes, head pounding. The comparative quiet of the morning was ringing unnaturally in her ears, after the night of madness. A few of the  _Hispaniola_ redcoats were still moving around the deck of the  _Rose,_ dragging mutineers' bodies away and pitching them over the railings with cannonballs yoked to their ankles, and she could hear the telltale churn in the water that meant sharks. While most of the mutineers had been the new men that she had taken on in Bristol, there were a few of her old hands among them too, the ones she had assumed to be firm and fixed in their loyalties.  _Daddy thought the same of Mr. Hawkins, no doubt._ They were going overboard just the same, men she'd sailed with and adventured with and trusted for six years, and she could hear them being eaten. Between Mr. Arrow and now this, not to mention her own mistakes, she'd managed to destroy everything but the physical ship, and since it was tilting decidedly to starboard after the  _Hispaniola's_ bombardment, that too was open to question.  _Just sink it. Just sink it, and take all of this away._

Geneva harshly swallowed the bile in her throat, as she was not going to vomit like some greenhorn in rough seas for the first time. She let her head fall with a clunk against the boards, wondering how long Lord Gideon felt was a proper time to question "Captain Barlow." Thomas had decided it was too risky to use their own names, and had introduced himself as such – Captain James Barlow, and Geneva as his niece, Elizabeth. Silver had promptly made himself scarce, but she could not help but fear what Lord Gideon might have heard about a notorious one-legged man. And while the family had changed the  _Rose's_ markings and flags and other Naval dressing, they had never changed the name, and that suddenly appeared as an unforgivable oversight destined to doom them all. What if Lord Gideon had access to the Navy rolls, knew the  _Rose_ had been stolen by pirates years ago, and then decided to –

 _Well,_ Geneva thought bleakly.  _Can't be any worse, can it?_

She remained where she was, the sun cresting steadily over the topsails, until she sensed someone crossing the planks toward her, then halting a few steps short. "C – Geneva?"

It was Jim. Dully wondering if he had come to shout at her more about Daddy, deciding she didn't much care either way, and probably deserved it, Geneva cracked a bleary eye; both of them had had time to turn what must be a rather spectacular purple. "Aye?"

Like the rest of them, Jim looked tousled and sleepless, chestnut hair loose from its ponytail and face pale and drawn. But it had been a bloody clever move, that trick with the flare, and must have taken considerably gifted marksmanship to pull off, as well as quick thinking and steely nerves. He might have saved their lives, in fact, and Geneva forced the cold clay of her face into what she hoped was a grateful smile. "You – that was very impressive. Thank you."

Jim shrugged, rather diffidently. "Thank you for trusting me to do it."

They looked at each other for a long moment, the echoes of their confrontation in the cabin still audible between them. Then the mutiny had forced them to work together regardless, and it seemed deeply counterproductive to continue to go for each other's throats, with the disastrous consequences of just such a thing scattered to every side. After a pause, Jim blew out a breath and sat down next to her. "I – " he began, stopped, and tried again. "I'm sorry for what I said. I know you didn't have any way of knowing what your father did."

Even if he was apologizing for shouting, Geneva did not want to talk about her father right now. She felt almost unworthy of the credit Jim was extending to her – she  _hadn't_ known, of course, but if she had, would she have treated that knowledge like Silver, keeping it to herself rather than throwing it out like Greek fire, to torch everything in its path? She could give no good answer why Killian Jones had killed James Hawkins, why she had grown up with a father and Jim, as a direct result of hers, had not. Nothing but her entire family's obsessive love for a years-dead ghost, which she had no intention of offering up as a mitigating factor. If he had had, and still did have, that kind of control over them, Samuel Bellamy was a very dangerous man indeed.

"Thank you," she said again, since Jim seemed to be waiting for an answer. "I'm sorry. That wasn't any way for either of us to find out. I would give anything to take it back."

"I know." Jim struggled slightly with the words, but managed to get them out. "What I – well, about your father, I'm sorry for that. But with us, what I – about the kiss – "

"What?" Geneva incredulously peeled open the other eye. "Are you actually wanting to talk about  _that_ right now?"

"I just…" Jim stared studiously straight ahead, but she could see his sunburned cheeks darkening further. "I said that you only meant to stab me in the back with it, and maybe that wasn't true. But I – well. It's as straight as I can say this, and I'm not trying to hurt you more. If it was just distraction and deception you were after, could you please not do it again?"

Geneva mulled this over grimly. She wanted to shout at him, just because the prospect of shouting at someone seemed vaguely appealing, but all her passion and anger and driving energy and sense of purpose, all the stuff you needed for a proper shout, had completely drained out of her. As well, Jim had every right to ask her so politely not to toy with him, not to treat him as a puppy or insipid hanger-on or other disposable inamorato. "I'm sorry," was all that came out. She didn't know if she meant for the kiss, or for how she had treated him overall, or the voyage, or coming to Bristol, or everything. Probably everything. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Her voice cracked on the last one, mortifyingly, and she tried to turn it into a cough, but her eyes welled up and spilled over before she could stop herself. She bit her lip hard enough to feel her teeth break the skin; if she started crying now, she'd come completely to pieces, and she couldn't do that. Not even if the  _Hispaniola_ men might be expecting some maidenly tears from poor Elizabeth Barlow, nearly set upon and torn apart by vicious mutineers, and confused as to why she hadn't. That was for later. Everything was.

Nonetheless, Geneva could not quite stop shaking, and after a deeply uncomfortable moment, Jim reached out and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her cautiously against his side and letting her hide her face. This made her shake more instead of less, even as she remembered that she hadn't given him an answer and perhaps he thought this was some other devious female ploy to practice upon his sympathies. Why was he here, why was he being kind to her at all, when her father had killed his, had ruined his entire life before he was even old enough to remember it, or know why? He should still be shouting. They all should.

And yet, Jim remained holding her, lightly but firmly, making it clear that she could pull back if she wanted to, or if she felt this was an improper encroachment upon their still-fragile relations. Geneva sniffed hard, trying to gulp down the ache in her throat, and could not muster up enough orneriness to raise her walls again. "That was…" Her voice was muffled against Jim's collarbone, the unlaced neck of his dirty shirt. "That was a really good shot. With the flare."

She felt more than saw him shrug, with his usual self-deprecating nature. "Would have blown my bloody fingers off if I lit it in my hand. I had no choice but to take the risk."

"No, it was." Geneva looked up at him. There was a faint shadow of unshaven beard on jaw and cheeks, almost auburn in the morning light, which almost surprised her – she kept forgetting he was a year older than her. "I probably couldn't have made it."

"You could have," Jim said. "You're about the most impressive person I know."

Geneva couldn't help a shy, surprised giggle, despite her cloud of misery. "I am not."

"Aye, you are." Jim appeared to be quite stout on this point. "Bloody hell, look at me. Kicked out of the Navy, hated by the entire merchantry of Bristol, inadvertently burned down my mother's inn, have no prospects for rebuilding it or making amends if I don't come back with – well,  _something._ Then there's you. You're beaut – clever, strong-willed, brave. You captain your own ship and travel the world, you stand up to whatever it has thrown at you, you're not afraid of anything, and you're just…" He trailed off. "You're intimidating."

Geneva had once seen a man in a social capacity – George Warrington, his name had been – who had said something similar to her. While he had outwardly meant it admiringly, it became clear that he did not, that he would have preferred for her to be somewhat less bright. Not all the way, no, no, not entirely. He was an educated man; of course he didn't believe all that folderol that women were destined to a life of nothing but motherhood and drudgery. He had read books written by women, even, and he was perfectly willing to allow that Geneva be permitted such idiosyncrasies and peccadilloes. But when they were married (he seemed to do quite a bit of talking in this vein), she would need to bridle some of her more outrageous activities. Swearing, for example. She could swear around  _him,_ since he was (as he would often remind all and sundry) an educated man. But he did not feel it was proper for children to hear their mother swear, or for her to take quite such controversial notions. She'd have to make sacrifices.

After one too many speeches in this vein, and a family supper in which Grandpa and Daddy had gone rather glassy-eyed listening to George prattle about London stocks and bonds recovering in the wake of the South Sea Bubble, then exchanged the kind of look that meant they were thinking of dismembering him in the back garden before dessert (that memory had always been funny, but now it seemed less so), Geneva had issued George with his notice of dismissal. He had been quite aghast, and called by the house several more times without an invitation, in hopes of changing her mind. His last argument had been that she wouldn't find anyone willing to accept  _all_ of her. She was a beautiful woman, she was talented, she was clearly very special, but she was too stubborn, too contrary, too scathingly witty, too prickly, and certainly too sexually liberate to appeal to any other gentleman of quality. Pass him up now, and she would be doomed to a life of either perpetual spinsterhood, or bearing eleven children for some fat old pig who only thought she was good for sweeping floors and baking bread.

"What?" Jim asked, evidently realizing that he had struck a nerve. "I'm sorry, did I – "

"No, I… it's not your fault." Geneva scrubbed at her crusty eyes. "I'm sorry too."

A corner of Jim's mouth twitched wryly. "So, you think we'll just be saying that to each other for the rest of the journey, then?"

Caught by surprise, Geneva giggled again. It was more of a snorted wheeze than an actual laugh, and it felt as if she'd been kicked in the ribs, but it was the first time in what felt like forever, and it seemed a small miracle to know that she still could. Jim coughed, looked down, and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket. "Here," he said gruffly. "Let me clean you up a bit."

"Oh no, it's all right, I can." Geneva tried to take the handkerchief, but he had a firm grip on it. "You don't need to – "

"I know I don't," Jim said, sounding slightly exasperated. "But you've been doing everything for everyone, without a rest, and you fought those men that were twice your size and thought you were no real threat to them. Let me, please?"

Geneva hesitated, torn between an urge to point out that the last thing she needed was more men trying to do things for her, and the sore desire to have someone else take control and sort this out, even for a little while. "Fine."

Jim got up, dipped the handkerchief in the water barrel, and then returned, crouching down next to her, taking her chin in his hand, and carefully wiping the blood crusted on her face. Geneva hissed when he touched her black eyes, and he grimaced in sympathy, but didn't pull back, working carefully and lightly, having to make a few more trips to rinse the cloth. "There," he said at last. "I don't think you've broken anything, it'll patch up."

"It's fine," Geneva said again, feeling an odd, burning tingle in the back of her eyes. "It's just a few bruises and scrapes, I've had worse. You don't need to fret over me."

Jim paused, as if weighing what to say, sensing that she was trying to keep up a stiff upper lip, had to do her damndest to present the illusion of control, even as she had never felt less of it in her life. Then he said quietly, "It's all right for it to hurt, you know."

Geneva looked down at her hands, knotted in her lap. "Not right now."

"Hey." He reached out, took one of them, and carefully unbent her clenched, aching fingers, straightening them against his callused palm. It wasn't forward or suggestive in any carnal sense, but just a solid, simple gesture of comfort, warm and matter-of-fact. "You can do it."

Despite herself, Geneva glanced up at him, almost tentatively. She had been amused by his boyish crush and tongue-tied awkwardness around her before, but she now found herself deeply impressed by his steadiness and his cool head under fire, his perception and his bravery and that confounded refusal to hold a grudge past a few days, when he could conceivably and justifiably have held it for life.  _I have misjudged this man. Aye, and he is, not a lad._ Their eyes met, and all at once, it was Geneva's turn to feel shy, something she rarely did when it came to gentlemen. Her heart fluttered unaccountably at the thought of their earlier kiss, and Jim didn't appear to be fleeing in terror from the potential of another one. She could lean forward – it was foolish, it wasn't the time, she hadn't even answered him yet, but he was there, and waiting, and –

She might well have done it. She was bloody close. Then the moment was broken by one of the  _Hispaniola_ soldiers – no, it was a lieutenant, wearing an officer's silver gorget – emerging from the cabin and pulling Madi by the arm. "You, girl, what happened to your mistress in there?"

"Get your hands off her!" Geneva jumped to her feet, outraged. She knew that Madi needed no help in defending herself in the usual course of things, but with what they had just been through, for her to be called "girl" and mistaken for Eleanor Guthrie's slave had to be the final salt in the wound. "That's a free woman, Mrs. Scott, and you will leave go of her immediately!"

Surprised, the lieutenant looked over his shoulder at her, then – with a somewhat too-precise movement – let go of Madi, who murdered him with her eyes. "Your pardons, Miss Barlow. I discovered the Negress inside, and assumed she was tending to your companion."

"You assumed wrongly," Geneva said, very coldly. "And under what warrant, exactly, are the lot of you pillaging my – my uncle's vessel?"

"Lord Gideon's," the lieutenant informed her. "There  _was_ just a mutiny on board, was there not? As the king's agents, we have a responsibility to ensure the return and establishment of law and order, and to impose it ourselves if your uncle is unable. What did happen to the lady in there? Wounded, aye, but that doesn't look to be a recent injury. What else has been going on aboard this ship, the – " He raised an eyebrow, as if in expectation of a name.

Geneva raised one back at him, as if in expectation of his first.

"Lieutenant Jeremy Woodlawn, madam. I don't think I've actually heard what this ship's name is yet. Do you know where your uncle keeps the registry papers?"

"My uncle is speaking with Lord Gideon," Geneva said. "I'm sure he's sorted it out."

"The ship looks quite Navy in her trim." Woodlawn glanced up at the masts, then across the deck. "How long has your uncle sailed her, do you know?"

Geneva was very wary of giving any answers that might conflict with Thomas', since she did not know what he might be claiming to Lord Gideon. "I don't."

"Hmm. Well, the papers must be somewhere in the cabin, and since this is  _not_ your slave, perhaps you wish to show me instead?" Woodlawn put his hand on the latch. "Then we can have this all sorted out and – boy, did I ask for you? I don't recall doing so."

Jim didn't budge. "I'm sure I can help."

Woodlawn eyed him, as if to say that he knew damn well Jim was trying to get between him and having Geneva alone for further persuasion, friendly or otherwise. However, he could hardly make it plain that he might be about to mistreat a wealthy merchant's niece in front of the rest of the men, and jerked his head. "Very well. Make yourself useful."

With that, the lieutenant followed Geneva and Jim into the cabin, which was low, dim, and smelled of blood and laudanum, as Eleanor had apparently been self-medicating throughout the chaos of the events outside. Her eyes were dilated, glassy, almost black, and she did not appear to take much notice of them. Geneva was trying to think what the devil to do – she knew exactly where the registry papers were, of course, but since they gave the ship's name as the  _Rose_ and its captain's as  _Geneva Jones,_ that, obviously, would be bad for their ruse in any number of ways. Woodlawn also did not seem like the kind of man who would be satisfied by putting a perfunctory effort into it and admitting failure. As Geneva and Jim came to a halt in the middle of the floor, he said again, "Well? The trunk or the desk, do you think?"

"I – can't be sure, I don't – "

" _Excuse_ me." The slurred voice came from the bed, as Eleanor pushed herself up on an elbow, eyes unfocused, and pointed an accusing finger at them. "You, sir. You are  _invading_ my quarters. Do you know who I am?"

"I do not, madam." Woodlawn turned to her. "Did you possibly wish to inform me?"

"She's an – old friend of – a friend," Geneva said hastily. "Not particularly – "

"I'm Mrs. Woodes Rogers," Eleanor announced. "My husband will punish all of you if you persist in this insubordination. Woodes Rogers, you  _have_ heard of him? The governor of Nassau?"

Woodlawn's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "Governor Rogers has been dead for eight years, madam."

Eleanor frowned, then shook her head woozily. "No. No, he's not. He's – "

"See," Geneva interrupted, sensing her opportunity. "Mrs. – Mrs. Smith is raving. Bad reaction to opium. She was wounded in the side by a falling spar not long into the journey, it's been a terrible trial to care for her. Really, you will insist on bursting into an invalid gentlewoman's bedchamber and ransacking the place? For shame, sir! For  _shame!"_

Lieutenant Woodlawn squinted at her, but after a moment, very grudgingly, took a step backward. "Apologies. Christian consideration must be taken into account. We can wait for your uncle's return."

They managed to make it back on deck, as Geneva felt her knees wanting to wobble and locked them as hard as she could. It was at least an hour since Thomas had gone on board the  _Hispaniola,_ maybe more; they had not been sounding the bells in the disarray of things. How many questions, exactly, might Lord Gideon have? Something seemed faintly, damnably familiar about the man, as if she should know him from somewhere, but she didn't. It was ominous enough that he was from Charlestown. She was trying to suppress the urge to pace, fingernails balled painfully into her fists, when a voice said, "Lieutenant, we've found a few more below."

Geneva, Jim, and Woodlawn all turned to behold two redcoats dragging John Silver by the arms, one of them carrying his false leg; to judge by the bruise rising on Silver's cheek, the man had already struck him with it. They dropped him in a heap, as the first one said, "There's another in the brig, m'lord. But before we ascertained what he was in for, we didn't think it wise to release him on the – "

"Jesus Christ." Silver spat out a few dribbles of blood. "I already told you, don't let that man out, unless you want us  _all_  blown to – "

"Shut up." The soldier kicked him, which Silver absorbed with a grunt. Addressing himself to Woodlawn, he went on, "The surviving mutineers, they've sworn that this one was the chief of the uprising. Talked himself into control of it and was intending to carry it out, until the lad managed to signal for us. Should we execute him as well, sir?"

"The chief of the mutineers, was it?" Woodlawn inspected Silver closely. "A one-legged man, to boot. How very curious. No, Jenkins, hold your fire. Lord Gideon is going to want to see this."

Geneva and Madi glanced at each other almost inadvertently, as if to gauge what the other was thinking to see Silver prone and bleeding in front of them. Nobody could argue with him deserving it, and Geneva might still have a few slaps in reserve if the opportunity arose, but she did not quite want to see Silver shot like a dog. He  _had_ killed Anderson, but was that in defense of them, or because Anderson had threatened his authority as leader of the mutiny? Now that she had some emotional remove from the heat of the situation, Geneva had to admit that she could not see Silver veering so quickly from saving her from Hands and insisting that he could not watch her die, to handing them all over to a scabrous gang of malcontents without a second look back. But there remained the fact that Silver's methods, whatever his motives, were often very hard to tell apart for friend or foe, and there was no reason to think he had been lying about being willing to do whatever it took. He always had, no matter what, and assuredly always would.

The wait dragged on interminably as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Geneva was feeling almost completely dissociated from her body, between hunger, exhaustion, emotional turmoil, anxiety, and everything else, and Woodlawn finally (gold medal for him) allowed her to sit on the hatch cover and have a drink of water. Jim perched protectively near her, as a few of the redcoats likewise seemed rather taken with this pretty, vulnerable-looking young lady, and Geneva couldn't decide if it was worth the effort to disabuse them. If they thought she was in fragile estate, they could potentially refrain from anything too drastic, but the question remained if Lord Gideon would be fooled. If he ever got bloody back, or if Thomas did. Jesus, could this just get over with, or at least not get any worse? For  _once?_

It was going on noon by the time the young governor finally reappeared, emerging onto the deck of the  _Hispaniola_ and crossing over to the  _Rose,_ as Geneva's eyes swept from side to side and noted at once that Thomas was not with him. She barely managed to hold her tongue until Murray had arrived, then blurted out, "Excuse me, where's my uncle?"

"He'll be remaining behind for the moment." Lord Gideon regarded her coolly. "That makes sense, of course, given what he said about your – circumstances?"

Geneva had no idea what Thomas might have told them, and took serious leave to doubt that his detainment had been voluntary. She took a step. "Look, you – "

"Sir," Lieutenant Woodlawn interrupted. "Miss Barlow is rather hysteric, you should leave her be for the moment. This scoundrel is of considerably more interest."

While Geneva was still trying to decide if she should step on Woodlawn's foot for the hysteria comment, or affect a swoon, or anything, Murray looked over at Silver, who still had several bayonets pointing at him. Something flickered across his face that Geneva decidedly disliked, and he contemplated Silver for a long moment. Then he said, "Correct me if I am mistaken, but am I in fact honored with the presence of the notorious pirate, Long John Silver?"

There was a deeply unpleasant pause, after which Silver seemed to decide that he could hardly deny it. "I do not go by that name presently, but yes."

"I thought so. That also explains why you attempted to conceal yourself – individuals of your former occupation must not be terribly fond of the sight of redcoats." Lord Gideon turned to Geneva. "But then, Miss Jones, you knew that too, didn't you?"

It took a moment for everyone to catch this. Geneva felt a lurch in her stomach as if she had missed several steps going downstairs. "I beg your pardon? My name is Barlow, Miss Elizabeth Barlow, not – "

"Please." Murray held up a hand. "I did suspect, but I needed the sight of him to be sure. Your name is Geneva Jones, and your uncle is Thomas Hamilton. Likewise, am I incorrect?"

Geneva opened and shut her mouth like a fish, surely not doing anything to convince Murray of her bona fides. Then suddenly and horribly, she remembered something that Madi and Max had said to her back in Nassau – and which, to judge from the look on Madi's face, she had also just thought of. "You," Geneva said.  _"You_  were the man that Billy Bones met in Charlestown, who sent him haring across the ocean to England. Weren't you?"

Murray inclined his head with sarcastic grace. "And you had – your uncle Charles, would it be? Charles Swan – write to David and Mary Margaret Nolan, prominent merchants of the same city, to have them ask who in Charlestown might know something about it. As well as giving details of your situation, and that you had departed aboard your ship, the  _Rose,_ in company with John Silver and in hopes of catching up to Mr. Bones. Well? Did you?"

"I met him," Jim said defiantly. "They didn't. Him and that mad old witch he's traveling with, Lady Fiona. She burned down my mother's inn, by the way. I'm sure of it."

" _Did_ you?" Murray looked at Jim narrowly. "How interesting. Lady Fiona is – regrettably – my adopted mother, and I have no more reason to wish her success than you must for Bones. But speaking of families, Miss Jones, I have met yours. They were in Charlestown, where they came to visit me, and I engaged them to perform a few small tasks."

"Why would they help  _you?"_

"Because they might not see your father again if they didn't." Murray spun on his heel. "I sent them to Philadelphia, but they slipped through my fingers after that. I knew you still had to be somewhere in the offing, however, and that made you my backup plan. It was simple enough to set sail to where you could be guessed approximately to be, if you were returning from a voyage to England, and hope we crossed paths. This worked better than even I was expecting."

Geneva continued to stare at him. She wanted to ask what the bloody hell he meant possibly not seeing her father again, until something else occurred to her. That odd encounter after the hurricane, with the ship called the  _Pan,_ its cocksure young captain, Rufio, and her inexplicable sense that something was wrong, when she asked him what was in the hold.  _Just a stubborn ox, my lady._ There was no proof, none whatsoever, but – she had sailed past, if that had been Daddy held prisoner, and she had missed her chance to –

Geneva had no idea how to react, as her anger and sense of betrayal at her father's long-ago actions wrestled with her still-deep love of him, and her fear that her failure might ultimately be the one that kept them from mending fences, rather than his. But there was no way to know where Killian Jones was now, or what had happened to him or any of them. Lord Gideon was clearly not about to let them wander off and find out, and with that, Geneva knew what he wanted. Coolly, she lifted her head. "You want us to take you to Skeleton Island. Since you couldn't sway Billy to your side, and because you lost my family. Don't you."

"I do, yes." Murray folded his arms and looked at Silver. "I would be correct in thinking that was where you were already bound? And that you, sir, know the coordinates?"

Silver hesitated for a long moment. "Where's Thomas Hamilton?"

"Aboard the  _Hispaniola,_ still – for the moment – an honored guest. That can alter if you displease me." Murray flushed. "Do you want to wager with his safety?"

"No," Silver said, after another pause. "No, I very much do not."

"Well then?" Lord Gideon jerked his head petulantly. "Aren't you going to cooperate?"

Silver flicked his eyes at the bayonets still hovering a few inches away from him. "It would be difficult for me to do anything in my present situation, Your Excellency."

Murray made a brusque motion, and the redcoats lowered their muskets. They hastened to grab him by both arms again, however, and force him into a pair of fetters, which Silver rattled sardonically. "Are these necessary? They have, as you see, already deprived me of my leg. Unless the British Army is in the habit of fearing elderly cripples these days?"

"If we were truly to contain the most dangerous part of you, we'd have to put on a muzzle." Gideon looked at Madi, who had taken an involuntary step forward. "And you, madam, would be Madi Scott, the co-factor of New Providence Island? You will also be coming with me, to discuss the trading arrangements that currently exist between Nassau and Charlestown, and David Nolan's controlling interests in each. Lieutenant Woodlawn, you're now the captain of the  _Rose,_ congratulations on your promotion. Station your men accordingly, mend any damage, and follow us closely. Mr. Silver will be giving us instructions on the  _Hispaniola,_ as to the whereabouts of Skeleton Island _._ Is that clear?"

Geneva was so incensed she could not speak, although part of her wondered why she was even still surprised. They had been delivered from one mutiny straight into the jaws of another – she had lost control of her ship first to Job Anderson and his frothing dogs, now to Lord Gideon Murray and his infernal redcoats, and that was only part, by the sound of things, of the trap he had cooked up to ensnare her family. But Thomas was a hostage, and she could not under any circumstances endanger his life, so she made herself stand still as Madi and Silver were hauled off onto the  _Hispaniola._ The hell was she going to do, anyway? It was pointless. It was all so fucking pointless.

 _When we get to Skeleton Island,_ she thought. _I'm bloody killing all of them._

* * *

To say the least, the air was tense when Sam and Jack – having been marched back to their cramped berth and locked in by Billy, who shrugged off all Sam's attempts at conversation with an impervious grunt – had been left alone again. If it was awkward to share a small space with a bloke before, when he had stripped off his shirt, showed you his scars, and told you a horrible story, it was several orders of superlative worse when that selfsame bloke had then grabbed your arse and claimed to be shagging you on the regular, to save your blood from being used for some esoteric Potion of Youth. Sam had long since accepted that he lived a somewhat more eventful life than your average likely lad, but still. This was just rude.

He had thought, with apparently criminally naïve optimism, that even Jack would be forced to talk about what had just happened, but Jack, as ever, did not think he needed to descend to such provincial mortal trivialities. He sat in the chair by the desk, obliging Sam to either crawl back into his bunk or perch on the trunk, and since the bunk was not going to do anything but make him toss and turn some more, he elected for the trunk. His insides were creaking with hunger, especially as the rising sun filtered through the cracks above and he could hear the rest of the ship wakening, but it seemed signally unlikely that a hearty breakfast would be forthcoming – unless Lady Fiona wanted to feed them up like that grisly German fairytale about the witch who ate children, which Sam rather wished he hadn't thought of. Finally, since it was stare at Jack's back some more or go mad, he said, "Fucked me over a barrel, was it?"

"Preferable to having your blood sipped for a refreshing aperitif, wasn't it?" Jack didn't turn around, so he remained half in shadow, as if cut from black velvet. "Or is this truly about your sense of offended decency?"

"It's not, it. . ." Sam could feel his cheeks heating. "Look, you make fun of me because I can't lie to save my life, but you – I've been honest with you, all right? I just – "

"And I haven't?" At that, Jack did look up, eyes fierce. "I told you that story about my scars – now what? Do you want to know every bad thing that's ever happened to me?"

"Congratulations," Sam said. "You've told me one bloody thing about your past. Let's hope the world can keep spinning, after a shock like that."

Jack looked as if he was about to fire back, then stopped. He braced his hands on his knees, turning the chair with a screech on the worn boards, leaning forward as if he was a runner waiting for the crack of the starting pistol. "What do you want me to say?"

"I have no bloody clue. If I had to guess, though, now you probably point out it was the logical thing to do to save me from Lady Fiona, just like it apparently was with the sailors belowdecks on the  _Griffin._  And who knows, you're probably right. Since we've already established you don't want to tell me about Charlotte, I'm just curious why that doesn't – "

Jack looked back at him, eyes cold and narrow. Finally he said, "The first thing I ever told you about Charlotte was that it was complicated. I don't owe you anything else."

"Fine!" Sam shouted. "You don't  _owe_ me! But I'd like to know why you'll lie to protect me, you'll claim to be me, you'll kiss me or act like we're sleeping together or anything else, you'll even tell me that story about your scars, and the rest of the time, it's back to acting as if I'm the scum of the earth! I'm sorry if I can't presume to the lordly Jack Bellamy's knowledge or rationale or understanding of things, so I suppose I just have to put up with whatever mood you feel like inflicting on me from day to day! I don't think you hate me, by the way. I don't think you do at all. But I could just be imagining things, given the way you told me off on my birthday. Oh yes, and then ran off! And got my best friend killed, more or less!"

He found himself on his feet, taking a few steps (which were all he needed) to close the distance, as Jack stood up sharply as well, raising his arm as if he thought Sam was going to hit him. Sam was aware that this was a not unreasonable conclusion to draw, given as he had done the same thing when Jack had found him in the woods in Barbados, but he was now additionally aware that it was a deeply conditioned instinct, that Jack would in fact expect an angry man to hit him, and that was why he had gotten so good at hitting back. The smallest prickle of shame punctured Sam's anger, and he took a step away. "Fuck you," he said, more quietly. "Fine, you don't have to tell me anything else, ever again. Just tell me that this – whatever you do for me, whatever this is – is actually just what you think is sensible, you don't like me but don't want to see me dead, and have it done. That's all I really expect from you, anyway."

"I. . ." Jack opened his mouth, shut it, and rubbed his hand over his face. "I'm sorry about Nathaniel. I'm  _bloody_ sorry. If I'd had one friend like that as a boy – if I'd had any friend before Charlotte – and someone got them killed like that, I wouldn't have forgiven them either. I know you're angry at me for it, and I don't expect you not to be. But if you could for  _once –_  "

"I'm not asking for the bloody moon! You just – one moment you're soft to me, almost gentle, you open up, you comfort me. The next, you throw an iron wall in my face and act like I'm the fool for thinking you were ever any different! The world won't end if you're honest for a godforsaken minute, but since that's apparently too  _difficult –_ "

They were almost nose to nose, and Sam was still tempted to give the oaf a good shove into the wall, just to emphasize his point. Or maybe a knee in the balls, that was also a deeply appealing option. But he ended up raising his hand and giving Jack a stupid jab in the shoulder instead, Jack swatted at him, Sam grabbed back, got hold of the collar of that nice new shirt the bastard had made such a meal of putting on, and – he didn't know what he was going to do, exactly, but it would definitely convey his displeasure. Only Jack wriggled around, and shoved back, and – they didn't know exactly what the blazes either of them were doing, but one moment it was fighting, and then the next, with no clue on Sam's part how, it was –

Sam opened his mouth, doubtless intending to say something clever, but as their mouths were presently locked together, and Jack was kissing him practically violently enough to break bones, this did him no good at all. He clawed hold of Jack with both arms, getting them around his shoulders, as they banged noses, bit tongues, bloodied lips, and kept knocking heads every time they tried to turn them to get closer. It was the world's ugliest kiss, wet and raw and clumsy, as they pulled at each other, got fistfuls of the other's hair, stumbled backwards against the bunk, and slid down it to the floor in a heap. They rolled over and over, still kissing, until they fetched up against the trunk (there not being much other room to go) and came to a halt, Sam sprawled on top of Jack, breathless and dazzled and drunk. He tried to push himself off, but his arms had turned to water. They just lay there, wheezing.

After a moment, Jack tried to recover enough to speak, which Sam could see no good to come of, and since they were in for a penny, in for a pound, there was not much to be done for it. He bent down and kissed Jack again.

This one was somewhat less like two jousters riding at each other full tilt, but no less vigorous, and they struggled half upright, Jack sitting with his back against the trunk and Sam straddling him, knees to each side of his hips, Jack's hands sliding up his sides and his own gripping at Jack's head. They kissed themselves completely breathless, mouths raw and bruised and swollen and marked with teeth, until Sam had no blood north of his heart at all and felt lightheaded enough to float off directly into the ether. He slowly, deliberately unstuck their faces, sweaty hair spilling loose from its queue and waving wildly in his eyes, as Jack raised a dazed hand as if meaning to tuck it back for him. Instead it fell to his side. He said hoarsely, "Jesus."

That, Sam supposed, was one way of putting it, and considerably more eloquence than he himself could manage at the moment. He recalled Charlotte, and felt a stabbing pang of shame that he had disrespected her like this. That was another thing to attend to when he got off Jack, which he had completely forgotten how to do. He rolled his hips instead, which made both of them groan, and leaned forward, open mouth against Jack's cheek, their breath hot against the other's skin as he sucked in short, shallow gasps that did nothing to ease the unbearable constriction in his chest. "You," he managed, with a feeble poke in Jack's stomach (with a finger, though for bloody sure other things wanted to poke as well) "are – such – a  _bastard."_

Jack looked as if all things considered, he couldn't deny it. His hand had made it to the small of Sam's back beneath his shirt, spreading on the smooth, unmarked skin, running up the knobs of his spine. Sam shifted, partly in response to this and partly in hopes of easing the strain on said other parts of his anatomy, which really didn't help. He was still breathing in those whooping gulps, clinging onto sanity by the very edges of his fingernails, and made himself remember that Robert Gold could be in the berth just across the way, listening to everything. That did succeed in deflating some of his. . . ardor, but not all of it. He thought about putting his hands on Jack's thighs to slide off, but that felt exceedingly dangerous.

Extremely belatedly, Jack also seemed to remember that whether or not he had lied to Lady Fiona about this being a regular feature of their activities, now was not the time to turn it into the truth. He slowly eased upright, sagging back against the trunk, as Sam skidded off his lap and landed with a thunk on the floor, thus making his tailbone the second most throbbing part of him. They both stared up at the ceiling for as long as humanely possible, until Sam said, "So. . . you don't hate me, then?"

Jack huffed an exasperated-sounding snort. "Don't push your luck."

Sam supposed he could swipe at him again, but that seemed liable to end up with more kissing, and that would be detrimental to the whole thing. A small warm ember had somehow ignited in his chest, burning steadily above his heart, until it was quenched by cold reality. "We, ah," he said, and coughed. "We shouldn't have. If Charlotte knew that, she'd – "

"Look, just. . ." Jack finally seemed to have reached his limit on how many questions about his wife he would curtly deflect. "Our arrangement is. . . flexible, all right?"

Sam blinked. He wasn't quite sure he'd heard correctly, and didn't want Jack to repeat it, just in case. He  _did_ know, of course, that Grandpa, Granny, and Uncle Thomas all lived together, that Granny was married to both of them, and that Grandpa and Uncle Thomas were also partners, but still. He had just assumed that that was something peculiar his family did – another pirate habit that was all well and good for them behind closed doors, but certainly not shared in any way by the outside world. This was likely true, given as Sam had encountered the conflict between his family's accepting views of sex and those of starched-up colonial polite society before. But if it was possible that Jack  _wasn't_ callously two-timing Charlotte, and that if they lived through this, there might be the slightest chance for a repeat opportunity – no,  _not_ that he was thinking of that, he absolutely was not. Not at all. This was purely academic information. Besides, he was still so mixed up and angry and conflicted over Nathaniel and revenge on Gold and whether he blamed Jack for it and how they were going to get out of this and what Lady Fiona might want with them, that there was no real desire to pursue it at the moment. He felt as if they had in fact punched it out (though with some  _slight_ differences) and he scrubbed his face with both hands, trying to make any sense whatsoever of the last five minutes. It felt like a very highly colorized dream.

The morning crawled past on turtle feet. Both of them were trying very hard not to look at each other, speak to each other, or acknowledge the other's existence in any way, and there was still not much to do in the tiny berth. There was a bucket in the corner to piss in, which was about its only amenity, and which Sam held off on using until his eyeballs were floating. There were no books and certainly no important papers left conveniently lying around, and he had no idea where they were going. He was so hungry he almost felt sick. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten something of any substance, and his innards were knocking together with a clacking sound. Food had never been a question for him; his parents complained good-naturedly about how much he (and Nathaniel) ate, but they never begrudged it, especially not his father, who remembered all too well growing up in bondage and never having enough. If it ever ran short, all they had to do was drive down the road to Leroy Small the grocer's, and buy more. Sam could count on his mother cooking breakfast, on a hearty plowman's lunch packed for school, on cakes or jam tarts or other small treats when he got home, and then roast or potato or soup or sausage or whatever else for supper with his family. He had simply never had to worry this much about where his next meal might be coming from, and it unsettled him.

Jack, of course, gave no indication. He must be much more used to the withholding of food as a punishment, to scraping by and hoarding it in his room and sneaking down to steal it, probably risking another thrashing if he was caught. He had to be hungry too, but he must also be well used to ignoring it, until Sam almost felt jealous. Not of his past, God no, but that Jack seemed, as ever, much better equipped to tough these things out than him. Finally, however, his stomach growled fit to wake the dead, and Jack raised an eyebrow. "Don't go swooning away, then?"

"Sorry," Sam muttered, cheeks hot. "I'm hungry."

"Well," Jack remarked. "If she wants to drink your blood, I suppose it would be easier to get it from you after she starved you to death. Likely not very healthful, though."

Sam glared at him. "Was that supposed to be  _funny?"_

Jack raised his hands, as if to say that if gallows humor was their only diversion, so be it. Sam himself was highly tempted to see if Jack's head could be used as a battering ram, both for personal satisfaction and to break out of here before he went completely raving mental. Maybe that was the point – starve and bore them slowly into insanity, until they gladly agreed to whatever Lady Fiona proposed if she would just let them out. That was quite bad enough, though Sam had expected worse. He tried to calculate in his head. How far could they have gotten from Barbados in a few days? Were they running with or against the great clockwise current of the westerlies? He had no idea. God, he hated sailing.

They managed to get through most of an afternoon of productively ignoring each other– Jack still in the chair, Sam lying on the top bunk, staring at the ceiling, and wondering if he would get thin enough to slip through one of the cracks – until there was finally another knock on the door. "You two. Come with me."

It was Billy, again, and Sam was so weak and faint with hunger, poor pathetic creature he, that he could not even think of a snappy retort. He tried not to scramble too quickly off the bunk, though he did go briefly dizzy when he sat up, and slid down. Only to catch the seat of his breeches on a snagging nail, plunge, and break his ankle – or would have, if Jack had not adroitly caught him in both arms, de-snagged the nail, and set him on his feet. Sam was fairly sure that the heat of his face could have been glimpsed by the Old Man on the Moon.

The lock rattled, and Billy opened the door, beckoning them brusquely out. Sam saw absolutely no reason not to, and trotted up to Billy's side as they started above, snapping his fingers under his nose. "Oy. Hey, you. You. You can keep ignoring me all you want, but I won't shut up. Ask Jack, I'm really good at not shutting up. One of the only things I'm good at, but never mind. Where are we going? Are we there yet? Are you planning to just keep us in the dark like funguses – fungi – whatever the whole bloody time? Until your sodding maniac of a boss decides it's time to off us, is that it? What about – "

"Be quiet." Billy thrust aside the hatch and pulled Sam through it, into the cool blue-gold evening air. Jack climbed out after them, with a cocked eyebrow as if to say if Billy could succeed where he had failed, he would be very surprised. "Lady Fiona is waiting for you, so – "

"Oh, now we're getting back to the blood-drinking bit, are we?" Sam stayed light on his feet (very light, he might crumple up and blow away with a good gust) and stared at Billy. "You know, I think I've figured out something about you. You just like to serve someone, it doesn't really matter who, and when you are, you won't think about anything else they might be doing. Then you do think about it, and go mad trying to destroy them for whatever bloody reason that is. First it was my – Captain Flint, and then you turned on him. Then you went to Woodes Rogers and sold the pirates out, and ended up stuck on Skeleton Island for your trouble. Then you found your way to Gold, made a deal with him, and then turned on him. Finally, you've ended up with Fiona 'Nuttier Than Squirrel Poo' Murray, whom presumably you will also turn on once you realize she has been a Bad Person. I could really speed that process up for you. Here: she's terrible. Help us escape, in – I don't know, a longboat or something, you and Jack could row, we'd steal provisions. You could still redeem yourself and do something worthwhile. Get me back home, and my family would forgive everything else."

Billy regarded him impassively. But for a moment, he seemed almost about to answer – to justify himself, perhaps, to explain why he believed that destroying Flint was the only path remaining for him to have peace in his life, and Sam felt an odd, cold shiver. He knew just then that he did not want to end up like Billy, so fixated on eradicating one man that he couldn't hear or accept reason at all, who was self-aware enough to know that he was proceeding down a dark path, but so stubborn and self-righteous that he felt it must be justified in the name of combating a darker evil. And by that system, in small steps and slippery slopes, he had gone from Flint to Rogers to Gold to Lady Fiona – each time, serving an objectively worse master in the name of revenge on the one before it.  _That's no way to live. That's no way to even exist._

"Your grandfather," Billy said abruptly. "If, for the sake of argument, I was to agree to this half-baked proposition of yours, help you and Bellamy escape. Then I walk in with the pair of you, and see him. Is he going to shake my hand, thank me for my service, say we should call it fair and go our own ways? Or is he going to shoot me on the spot, now that he has me there, in sight, and can settle it once and for all?"

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it. He knew his grandfather could, to say the least, be of a similarly vengeful temperament – any family with Captain Flint and Captain Hook in its branches could not be unfamiliar with its corroding influence. But surely, if Billy brought him home safe, Mum and Granny would prevail on Grandpa to forgive and let him go. Surely.

There remained, however, that pervasive small kernel of doubt. Flint and Billy had both been left behind on Skeleton Island, stranded and alone for months, and their lives forever changed as a result, but it was only Billy's that had been destroyed. That, Sam felt, was as much down to his own choices as anything, but Flint had gotten the world back, a family, a home, a happy ending, and Billy had not. He had been dangerous before, and this made him more so, and James Flint was not in the habit of leaving alive those who had threatened or harmed his loved ones. It  _was_ possible that even if Billy brought Sam back, Flint would not consider the ledger wiped clean, and would not call off the hunt. Sam wanted to lie, to say that there would be absolution and gratitude no matter what, but the words got stuck.

Billy seemed to sense the answer nonetheless. A dark shadow passed over his face, and if there had been any chance of reaching him, of changing his mind, Sam felt it wither to dust in his hands. Billy turned away. "Come on," he ordered. "She's waiting."

Stomach leaden, knowing that had been his last shot and he had missed it, Sam trailed after him into the cabin, half-expecting to see some diabolical alchemical setup with smoking crucibles and bubbling cauldrons or God knew whatever else. As such, he was almost relieved (deeply so, in fact) to realize that it was a dinner table, spread with an assortment of savory-looking dishes that immediately made his mouth water. Lady Fiona was sitting behind it in her sinister sartorial best: a low-cut black gown trimmed with sparkling onyx, and a jeweled hairpiece with a black ostrich feather pinned in her bouffant updo. "Good evening, boys," she said sweetly. "You must be very hungry, mustn't you?"

"We're not," Sam said, as his stomach once more growled like the volcano about to bury Pompeii of old. He had identified a decided problem in this apparently generous offer. "Not for whatever poisoned slop you'd be feeding us."

"Poison?" Lady Fiona raised a heavily plucked and penciled eyebrow. "Is that what you think?"

"Actually," Sam said. "Yes."

Lady Fiona shrugged, poured herself a cup of wine, and took a drink. Then she cut a bit off the gleaming leg of roast chicken and nibbled it daintily off the end of a golden fork, watching Sam pointedly the whole time. When this did not occasion her dramatic death, and Sam still didn't move, she shrugged. "Bones, take them below. Apparently they're not hungry."

"I… wait." Sam would have been willing to do a great deal to avoid another slow, starving day and night in the tiny berth with just ignoring Jack for entertainment. He was aware that plying a prisoner with food and drink in hopes of getting them to talk was an old interrogation trick, but at least if he knew she was trying it, that had to be worth something, didn't it? He was so bloody,  _bloody_ hungry, and if she was going to kill them, which was extremely likely, at least he would not die on an empty stomach. "Fine.  _Fine."_

Lady Fiona beckoned them to sit in the two empty chairs across from her, and once more nodded for Billy to depart. Once they had, eyeing her with extreme dubiousness, she waved a magisterial hand at the table. "Help yourself. I  _doubt_ my brother fed you bountifully, now did he?"

"Your brother's a git," Sam said. "Runs in the family."

Lady Fiona laughed, apparently not at all disconcerted. "Believe me, I know. Robert is quite a troublesome fiend, isn't he? He always has been. I heard what happened to your little friend, by the by. That must have been very awful."

Sam meant to answer, but his throat had closed up. He looked down, mastering himself, then checked what was already on her plate and served himself only from those dishes, as Jack paused, then followed suit. He didn't much like the taste of wine, but there was nothing else to drink, so he poured a cup from the same decanter that she had earlier. Obviously there was some sort of twist or catch or whatever else, but the first bite of warm herbed chicken and steaming fresh bread with butter almost brought tears to his eyes. He munched warily, trying not to inhale it all at once, on high alert for any symptoms of abrupt and unpleasant death, but for better or worse, didn't think she'd poisoned it. He was probably too much bloody fun to play with first.

"So," Lady Fiona said after a few moments, seemingly when she had a chance of getting a semi-human response. "Do you want to kill my brother, young Samuel?"

Sam's mouth was still full, so he swallowed first, feeling it undignified to spray crumbs. "And why would you let me do that?"

"Why not?" She shrugged. "I don't have any personal need to accomplish his death myself, and fratricide  _is_ rather unstylish. However, I need information on his network first, all the branches of this new society he's built, his contacts and his influences and his acquaintances. Robert has always been very thorough when it comes to that sort of thing. I want to use his system, simple as that, and it will be easier to do it without him around to compete with me. He of course knows this, and that I need him alive until he talks, which I think even he will do, eventually. Especially if he meets his son, or rather  _my_ son. Lord Gideon Murray, he's a fine young man, and he absolutely  _hates_ his father. I made quite sure of that."

Sam took another bite of chicken, rather than answer too fast. He hated Gold, no doubt of that, but if there was anything worse than Gold running this secret murder society of his, it was Lady Fiona running it. He couldn't help but feeling, again, just that tiny (very tiny) bit sorry for Gold, who was obsessed with power past all sense and had done many terrible things to many people, but at least had some crumb of human feeling and sentiment, some possibility of attachment or remorse. Lady Fiona, so far as Sam could tell, had no soul at all.

Jack, meanwhile, had an odd look on his face, as might be expected from this talk of sons hating their fathers, of being willing to destroy them for their crimes. He lifted his cup of wine to his lips, then put it back down. With considerably affected casualness, he said, "Would you happen to know if a Captain Jonathan Howe is part of this network of your brother's? Last the commander of HMS  _Eagle,_ out of London."

Sam shot him a sharp look, which he could see Jack pretending not to notice. Lady Fiona, for her part, tapped her fingers speculatively on the table. "The name seems somewhat familiar, yes. I am sure I could arrange to find out more. Are you interested in doing business with me, Mr. Bellamy? You would, of course, be most welcome."

Since looks did not appear to be working, Sam kicked Jack under the table, hard. Aye, Howe needed to get very dead, and promptly with it, but he was far from sure that making a deal with the devil was the way to go about it. Even he, much as he still wanted revenge on Gold, wasn't about to leap for the serpent's apple that Lady Fiona was temptingly dangling. Jack wasn't stupid, he could see she was bad bloody news, and would snap him up the instant he ceased to be useful. Right? _Right?_

The silence was taut and tenuous. Then Jack smiled. "I am interested, Lady Fiona," he said. "Very much. Shall we be allies? It is a considerably more agreeable situation than prisoners."

"It is." Lady Fiona was practically purring, leaning across the table and giving Jack an excellent view down the front of her dress, stroking his wrist, as Sam thought he might vomit in his mouth. Then she straightened up and turned to him. "Well, Mr. Jones? Do you intend to join us?"

Sam hesitated. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, and couldn't be sure if this was just a ploy to get Lady Fiona on their side and inclined to treat them better for the rest of the trip, or if Jack was genuinely willing to work with her to get a shot at his father. After hearing that story, he couldn't  _blame_ Jack, had no right to judge him, but –

But.

"I'm sorry," Sam said. His voice sounded thin and shaky, so he swallowed and tried again. "I'm sorry, both of you. But I'm not going along with it."

"Aren't you?" Lady Fiona considered him shrewdly. "So you don't want to make my brother pay for what he did to your friend? That does surprise me."

"Yes," Sam said. "Yes, I bloody do. But I don't want to end up like Billy Bones, revenge has already done enough damage to my family, and if I do get it, it isn't going to be through selling my soul to you. And there's nothing you can say about me not caring for Nathaniel as much as I thought I did to guilt-trip me otherwise. He was my friend, my  _best_ friend, and I'm going to miss him for the rest of my life, probably. Gold and Jack and the soldier who shot him are all responsible, maybe, in some way. But you know who's the most to blame for it? Me. I'm the one who got him killed. Took him along on this adventure and thought I'd always be able to get us out of it, and I didn't. And playing your game isn't going to change anything about that."

Lady Fiona's eyebrows arched again, as if almost impressed at this display of forthcoming honesty – aye, it must be a rarity around her. "Oh, I believe you," she said. "I quite suspected that ill-advised streak of nobility was going to resurface, in fact, so all we have to do is – ah. That worked quite well, didn't it?"

There was a soft thud from next to Sam, and he spun in his chair to see Jack topple face-first into the table, just missing his plate. Sam stared at him, thinking he'd somehow managed to fall asleep, then suddenly was afraid he'd had an apoplexy. He reached out, gripping Jack's shoulder and shaking him hard, but there was no response. "Hey. Hey! Jack! Jack. Jack. Jack!"

"He won't wake," Lady Fiona said. "I only gave him a small dose, as I didn't want him interfering if you decided to be difficult. I gave you a bit as well, so I wouldn't move too quickly if I were you. Might make the world go quite topsy-turvy. If you aren't going to help me, and you don't want to kill my brother – well, I  _could_ sell you back to your family, it's true. But I don't need the money, and it would set a bad example. Besides, when you refused me your blood, you did make me think of another recipe I've been wanting to try. The tonic works tolerably well at keeping me young, but I do have to continue taking it. If there was a solution to solve it permanently, or at least for several years – well, I might not have to kill  _quite_ so many boys, and I do get rather fond of them. So you see, sweetheart? You can still be useful after all."

Sam jerked back from the table and tried to stand up, but just as she had warned, his legs had unaccountably turned to wet sand, and he staggered, clutching at the tablecloth and pulling it half off. His chest felt as if it had been filled with hot mud, stealing up behind his eyes. Whatever Lady Fiona had dosed him with, however she had done it, it was undeniably potent. "What?" he croaked. "What the hell are you going to do, eat my heart?"

"Oh, do you know some of the occulted arts?" Lady Fiona seemed amused. "That is in fact what I am going to do, yes, once I've brewed the proper potion. That should keep me in youth for at least several years, rid me of the disagreeable business of draining the boys for blood so often, and perhaps I can find a proper philosopher's stone and do one better. I am sure Jack will regret your passing, but I will tell him some heroic story to soothe his consciousness about continuing to work with me. So." She reached for the folded napkin next to her, flipped it over, and pulled out a black-hilted dagger, honed to a lethally sharp edge, glittering in the candlelight. "This will hurt much less if you don't struggle."

Sam backed away. The chair caught him painfully behind the knees, sending him stumbling, as he tried to recollect enough control of his drugged limbs to search the cabin for a weapon. He reached out, fingers clumsily batting Jack's shoulder, but he was dead to the world. "Wake up!" Jack had protected him from the start of this adventure, however grumpily or reluctantly or unusually. From Da Souza, then the ocean, then Lieutenant Warwick and Matthew Rogers and the bo'sun on the  _Griffin,_ then Gold, then Lady Fiona earlier. Always had, and without him, Sam felt suddenly and terrifyingly vulnerable. "Jack!  _Wake up!"_

"I told you," Lady Fiona said. "He won't."

With that, she lunged at him, much quicker than one would expect for an eighty-year-old lady in long skirts, as Sam caught her wrists and forced them away from his face. He was taller than her, and probably in the ordinary course of things stronger, but she was some evil alchemy vodou witch and he was quite thoroughly foxed on whatever vile compound she'd managed to slip into the dinner. There was only one chance, and that chance was terrible.  _"Billy!"_ It came out choked, because Lady Fiona had managed to clamp one bony hand around his throat, and he was starting to see spots. Nonetheless, he struggled to get enough air into his straining lungs to try again. "BILLY! BLOODY HELL!  _BILLY!"_

"He won't help you." Lady Fiona's eyes were almost completely black. "Not when he knows his revenge on Flint is what I can give him – and aye, his revenge on my brother. Not everyone is so noble as you, to pass it up. So I'm afraid, young Samuel, you're out of allies. Just you. And you've never been enough, have you? Always needed someone else to save you. Well, if it's any comfort, now you'll save me. I do appreciate it. Good night, sweet prince."

She stabbed at him again, as Sam clumsily knocked it aside, but not far enough. He was aware of a distant, disconnected pain, observed the slash in his forearm and the slow, sludgy trickle of blood from it, but it barely seemed real. Then the world was cartwheeling out from under him, he was falling, and she was above him, like a ravening dark shadow, a carrion bird with black wings outstretched. Tore his shirt aside over his heart, and raised the blade –

– was that someone shouting? It wasn't Jack, Jack was still unconscious, and Billy wasn't coming, nobody was coming –

Then the dagger bit into his chest, hard and sharp and cold, and Sam Jones screamed.


	22. XXII

HMS  _Griffin_  was – it could not be denied – a fine example of her kind. Rather too fine, in fact: a fifth-rater, upward of forty guns, and still light enough to make good speed. She was not one of the slower, lumbering ships of the line, which were floating fortresses intended to blast the enemy to kingdom come with their superior firepower, but a sleek vessel ideally suited to pursue and capture smaller craft, crisp-lined and freshly painted, sails snapping in the morning wind as they were untethered. It was clear that Matthew Rogers took great pride in his command, and if that speed could help them catch up to Sam in time, Emma would not say another word against it. Still, it had given her a frisson of instinctive revulsion to step aboard a Royal Navy ship, and Flint, Killian, and Liam practically had to be dragged. This was their one choice, possibly their only one, but nobody had any illusions about how quickly it could go wrong.

Once aboard, Matthew instructed Lieutenant Warwick, his second-in-command, to find them suitable quarters, while he himself offered his arm to Charlotte. "May I show you the ship, madam?"

"Ooh," Charlotte said, fluttering her eyelashes. "Is it very big?"

As they moved off, Emma raised an eyebrow. "Do you think we should warn him? Rogers, I mean? He's going to get himself into trouble."

"No," Flint and Killian said in unison. "Let him."

"We have to keep sight of what we're doing here," Emma said quietly. "I know none of us like him very much, but he's still the captain, and our best chance of catching up to Sam  _and_ Gold – and for that matter, her husband. So, tempting as it may be, we can't just let Charlotte – "

"Charlotte is…" Killian seemed to be deciding what to say. "If Rogers wants to think there's possibility there – and  _Charlotte_ wants him to think that – why not? He might tell her things that he wouldn't let slip to us. Reminds you a bit of his parents, doesn't it? Woodes Rogers, always cool and in command of every situation, until he met Eleanor Guthrie, who was just as intent on using him for his position and to save her neck, and yet he fell for her anyway. It's not quite the same, but – "

"Eleanor sold out her former friends for Rogers' sake," Flint pointed out, with considerable and undimmed asperity, as he himself had been one of those friends, Eleanor's mentor and frequent partner-in-crime. "We best hope Charlotte doesn't."

"We settled this in Philadelphia," Emma reminded him. "She's on our side."

"Aye," Flint allowed. "And I think she knows what she intends by the dalliance, far more than he does. Besides, Matthew is the bloody image of his father, he looks just like him, acts just like him. And I doubt he inherited anything pleasant from Eleanor. I agree he's our best chance for now, but when this is through – "

"We can't kill him," Emma insisted, keeping her voice down, as this was the exact sort of conversation that, if overheard, would get them all murdered belowdecks one night. "This Rogers isn't that one. This isn't the war we fought against his father. If we killed everyone in the world who might ever mean us harm, we'd never stop. And we did. We stopped."

Flint took this in with an expression as if he had just bitten into a juicy apple and found it infested with worms. He stole a glance at Miranda and Regina, who were standing by the rail and making lively conversation with some of the sailors – Regina's knack as an old brothel madam used to making men talk, and Miranda's ever-polished diplomatic courtesies, were as much an asset to the information cause as Charlotte's clear intention to play Rogers like a fiddle. It was also a reminder that none of them could do anything too reckless, with wives and spouses to be caught in the crossfire if Flint felt too much like pursuing old grudges. Emma herself was willing to overlook a great deal of past bad blood if it got them closer to Sam. She had been feeling more and more anxious about him over the past several days, and had no idea why.

They stood on deck, thrown occasional suspicious glances by the crewmen, but nobody daring to outright question Matthew's determination to take these elderly vagabonds along, as the anchor was winched up and they began to get underway. Due to the prevailing clockwise circular of the trades, they could not just sail directly back up along the Leewards, retracing the route they had taken down – it was comparatively easy to sail south and west in the Caribbean, but a considerable battle to go north and east, as all of them were well aware. To get back to the Bahamas and Skeleton Island, as they thought the  _Titania_ was most likely to be headed, they had to swing out considerably into open waters north of the Spanish Main, navigate the Windward Passage between Cuba and Hispaniola, and head up past the Turks from there.

It was a considerably risky journey for a British Navy ship to make in wartime, deep into Spanish waters and near Havana itself, and the heavy square-rigged  _Griffin,_ fast as she was for her kind, was still slower than the light, junk-rigged  _Nautilus._ They would be quite a bit more time getting back than they had going out, and Emma struggled with the frustration that they had not at least asked Nemo to stay until they were certain of the situation on Barbados. He was not their personal courier, and his business freeing slaves was much more important, but still. They were behind and falling further so, stuck on a ship with the son of one of their most dangerous old enemies, and  _her_  son was out there, with an individual whom Liam had warned her was vicious, unhinged, and capable of unnatural powers and abilities. Not even to mention, Gold.

Emma tried not to pace too much as the  _Griffin_ picked up speed, navigating out of Bridgetown harbor while the bo'sun shouted at the crew to set the sails for their westerly course. The man certainly did do a lot of shouting; she overheard him call one of the hands "Shitbag," and doubted he was known for his tender and gentle leadership style, as the Navy rarely was. Nobody felt like shutting themselves up for what would be the first day of several, and she kept an eye on Flint and Killian, who had retreated to the quarterdeck and were talking low-voiced, heads together. Liam had wandered off to inspect the general workings of the ship, and Miranda and Regina were still entertaining gentlemen, so Emma found herself, for the moment, almost alone. She tried to take a deep breath, trying to shake the claws of the beast that had clutched hard into her heart. Sam was fine, he was  _fine,_ he was a resourceful lad, he –

"Mrs. Jones?"

She turned with a start to see Matthew, who had apparently managed to divert himself from Charlotte's charms for the moment. He politely inclined his head. "Your pardons. I was only going to suggest that you needn't remain out here in the sun and wind. You may go below."

"I know." Emma considered him. "You know I was a pirate, though – you know we all were – so why do you expect me to scruple at it?"

"Indeed. You are now a gentlewoman of some years, however, so protocol dictates that the offer should be made. Unless you and the rest of your family suspect that if any of you should take your eyes off me for a moment, I shall treacherously alter course and deliver you up to the hangman at Port Royal?"

"The thought…" Emma paused. "The thought had crossed our minds. Some of them."

"I am a man of honor, Mrs. Jones. Though I am aware you will consider my word counterfeit, even as I still wonder the same of yours." Matthew's pale blue eyes were reserved and intent. "But there is no reason for us not to conduct this enterprise productively and in mutual interest, like civilized people. Unless you fear that your husband's old prejudices – and more pertinently, I suspect, your father's – may well interfere?"

"My husband and my father both have good reasons for their, as you call them, prejudices," Emma said, politely but coolly. "But I do not think they will interfere, no. As long as you can offer us the same guarantee of safety from your crew."

"None of them are old enough to have fought the pirates themselves," Matthew said. "And I do not tolerate insubordination on any front. Anyone flouting my word will pay for it."

Emma felt a slight chill go down her back. Knowing it was something of a personal question, but unable to restrain, she asked, "How old are you, Captain Rogers?"

"I will be twenty-four in January, madam. I received my commission at the age of nineteen. This is my first dispatch to the Indies, but I assure you, I have learned quickly."

"So you have." Emma couldn't help but being impressed by him, and also to catch strange, then-and-gone, oddly poignant glimpses of Eleanor Guthrie. After a pause, she said, "I knew your mother. Long ago."

Matthew's lips went thin, as he doubtless did not care to be reminded from whence this association stemmed, but he answered courteously. "I am sure you did, Mrs. Jones. My mother is a… complicated woman. She raised me mostly by herself after my father went to prison, then was released to lingering debt and personal scandal, then finally was offered an opportunity to atone by – of all the ironies – accepting a second term as governor of Nassau, the place that had ruined him in the first instance. From which, you will be aware, he did not return. I was fifteen when he died, and had never seen him for more than a few weeks at a time."

"Do you… remember your father?" Emma asked tentatively. "Perhaps you've been told, but you are very much like him."

Matthew shot a slightly startled look at her. She could see him debating whether to answer, as he was obviously conversing with someone who had known Woodes Rogers as a mortal enemy, but it also seemed the case that he'd never had someone to speak with this about. After a moment he said, "I have scattered memories. When he was home, he and Mother were usually rowing about money. His hair had turned grey in prison, it made him look more like my grandsire than my father. His first wife and their children occasionally sent solicitors' notices demanding their share of the settlement, and he and Mother were not received in Bristol society because of the irregularity of his remarriage to a pirate Jezebel and the disgrace of his downfall. We moved to Cheshire when I was five, to another of his properties. They often slept in separate bedrooms, on the occasion he was there at all. So if it pleases you and your family to know that Eleanor Guthrie received no happy ending from what she did, there is that."

Emma couldn't help feeling a brief pang of sympathy for Matthew, the child caught up in this war like the rest of them, living it at home long after it had ended for the adults, who had at least had the choice of participating in it. Awkwardly she said, "I'm sorry."

Matthew shrugged, clearly attempting to brush it off. "My father was a great man," he said, as if he had not quite meant to, but couldn't help himself. "He was given an impossible task, and he achieved it, no matter that it ruined his entire life to do it, the same as the voyage around the world that made him famous. He was thanked with debtors' prison, with ingratitude from the Admiralty, with hatred from his neighbors, with scorn even from his wife, with a return to Nassau – he must have been no more eager to see it again than any of you – and a death there alone, unmourned, for men to spit at the mention of his name. I know he opposed you and your cause, and dealt stringently in doing it, but tell me. Did he deserve that?"

"I… couldn't say," Emma answered at last, carefully. "He was a dangerous and subtle enemy, but a most formidable and competent one. We respected him, as much as we hated him."

Matthew looked at her as if he was oddly gratified to hear this, from someone who had at least known his father personally and could testify to his worthiness, damaged or otherwise. When he did not answer at once, Emma said, "So is that what you set out to do? Clear his name, prove the Rogers family to be worthy of all the recognition it had lacked, and that England was a fool to ever take it so callously for granted?"

"Something like that, yes." If Matthew was startled at how accurately she had diagnosed his motives, he was good at masking it. "Lord Robert Gold has been most… helpful on that accord."

"I imagine he has," Emma agreed, with an edge she did not quite succeed in disguising. "But surely you must know that if you are attempting to wash out a stain of dishonor, adding his treason will only deepen it."

" _You_  are going to speak to me of what constitutes treason?" Matthew raised a consummately skeptical eyebrow. "But yes, your son did have something to say on that accord as well. He is an… opinionated lad."

Emma could imagine that her blazingly forthright, adventurous, innocent, feckless, up-for-anything Sam had mixed like oil and water with this reserved, cool, upright, strictly rules-abiding, more than slightly dangerous young captain. "How much did you and Sam have to do with each other, exactly?"

Matthew hesitated. "Not much. I was suspicious of his origins, but I thought – mistakenly, as it turned out – that his companion was Captain Hook's son. He seemed the sort. I was more interested in transporting them to Lord Robert for his verification and examination."

Emma's old sense as to whether or not someone was being entirely truthful took exception to this, but not clearly. She herself had warned against antagonizing Matthew, but it suddenly made her more willing to encourage Charlotte to continue her little play-act, to see what the captain might let slip. After a moment she said, "So you became captain at nineteen? That is certainly quite prodigious. Have you worked with Gold all that time?"

Matthew gave her a rather arch look, as if to say he recognized that she was trying to dig for information, but would humor her nonetheless. "As I said in Bridgetown, he has been generous with his sponsorship. But my first assignment was to sail to the Barbary coast of Africa and attack the corsairs, who have grown uncommonly audacious in their capturing of European ships and impressment of the crew and passengers into Ottoman slavery. Perhaps he felt it best from the outset that I learn how to deal with pirates. That voyage taught me a number of unpleasant lessons, and the hard necessities of command. I lost half my crew to smallpox on the return to England. We were so shorthanded upon arrival that they took us for a ghost ship, and we were kept in quarantine for six weeks to be sure the pox would not spread."

"Oh?" Emma frowned. "Did you – "

"Did I have it? No, madam, I was fortunate. If you are concerned about lingering contagion, I can assure you the ship was stripped and scrubbed from stem to stern."

"No, actually, we can't get it. Killian and I, that is."

"Is that so?" Matthew, despite himself, was listening. Smallpox was the feared scourge of crammed tenements and close quarters, whether on land or sea, and he examined her closely. "You survived it, you mean?"

"No, not exactly. In 1721, HMS  _Seahorse_ arrived in Boston – from Barbados, incidentally – and brought the pox with her. We lived there at the time, and it spread quickly. The African slaves in the city suggested a treatment called inoculation, customary in their homeland, that involved deliberately introducing a bit of the infection into the body. A small replication of the disease, thus to provide the same protection against it once recovered. The newspapers and one Dr. William Douglass fulminated against it extensively, claiming that it was a scurrilous plot by the black devils to trick the white man into killing himself. Killian and myself, however, took their advice, and had the procedure done on ourselves and our children. It was not a pleasant several days in our household as a result, but we never caught the pox, even though the epidemic did not fully subside until the next year."

Matthew looked equal parts horrified and intrigued. "So you trusted Negro slaves, rather than eminent medical doctors? That was a fortunate wager."

"We've learned certain things about the relations of white and black men in this world," Emma said, even more coolly, "to make us confident in our choice. Perhaps you will not be aware, but in the pirates' republic, the two often lived together as equals."

Matthew's expression at that was somewhat incredulous, but not necessarily opposed – not that he felt it was innately impossible, but that he had simply never encountered such an idea being put successfully into practice. Then he said, "How is inoculation performed, precisely?"

"You take a penknife," Emma said, "well washed in lye or some other caustic soap, and wipe the upper arm with alcohol. Then you make a small incision. You place some of the pus from a smallpox variole into that incision – the physician who performed ours used the hollow point of a quill. The wound is stitched and bandaged. Within a day or so, you will have some flushing and fever, a lump in the arm, and a slight rash. It subsides usually within the week, and after that, you are as unable to catch it as one who has already survived it."

"You deliberately made your own children sick," Matthew said, "in an attempt to ensure their future health? That seems paradoxical, but I suppose I am not a parent."

"I had misgivings," Emma admitted. "At least Henry and Geneva were old enough to understand what it was, and to bear the pain in the name of not being deathly ill, but Sam was just one, and he had no idea. Killian and I sat up with him, despite being sick ourselves, all day and all night for most of the week. We wondered if we'd made a terrible mistake. He cried and cried. It's a unbearable thing to hear from your child when you cannot stop it, when you know you are the cause of it, and yet it is the best of bad options. If there was anything else I could have done to make his suffering go away, I would have. Anything."

Matthew glanced away. "As any mother would, I suppose," he said, after a slightly long moment. "So inoculation cannot be performed unless the pox is already present. Do you know anyone else who attempted this daring maneuver successfully?"

"We convinced a few of our neighbors. None of them got it either, though one of the girls had a bad… a bad reaction." Emma winced at the memory. "You will know that the suffering the pox brings is singular. There were whole streets in the city cordoned off."

"I buried more men at sea on that voyage than I care to ever repeat," Matthew said. "Your method sounds quite sorcerous and strange, Mrs. Jones, as no doubt you know. But if we should be so unfortunate as to have it aboard again, I will keep your recommendation in mind."

Surprised and somewhat gratified, Emma nodded. "Here," she said, pulling up her sleeve to show him the small white weal on her upper arm. "That's where they did it."

Matthew bent briefly to examine it, then straightened up. Just then, a shout from one of his men turned his head, and he nodded crisply to her in return. "Thank you for the conversation, madam. I found it illuminating on several fronts. Good day."

With that, he strode off, as Emma glanced out at the distant, glittering horizon, the blue waves that surrounded them to all sides as Barbados vanished astern. She remained lost in a reverie for some moments, until another shadow fell over her, and she looked up to see Flint, who had joined her at the railing. "So," he remarked. "Instructive interchange, that?"

"In some ways, yes." Emma didn't feel that Flint needed to know all of it, but remained aware that cordial palaver or not, Matthew was still capable of being just as dangerous as his father. They were, after all, on board his ship, heading into Spanish waters, and they needed to keep their wits about them. "For what it's worth, I think his motives are sincere in working with us, but he's hiding something. I think it's about Sam. Something that happened when he and Jack were aboard, after he picked them up near Nevis."

"That doesn't surprise me," Flint remarked, shooting a cold look at Matthew's back. "He'll be brimful of notions about wanting to polish up his father's tarnished halo, no doubt? If he has Rogers' cunning and Eleanor's self-interest, that will be quite the bloody devil's brew instead. I still don't like this."

"I don't particularly like it either," Emma said, somewhat shortly. Much as she loved Flint, he did have that regrettable tendency to assume that his feelings or perspectives were the only important ones in any given situation, and was shocked to discover that anyone else might have thought through the problem in any depth, much less venture to offer an informed opinion. "I know it isn't easy for you or Killian to be back here – I don't know about Liam, but I don't think it's comfortable for him either. But no matter what, you can't provoke them."

"I will behave," Flint promised. "So long as they do."

This was somewhat less than a ringing guarantee of peace, but Emma supposed it would have to do. She nodded to him as well, and took her leave.

They managed to get through the first night without being jumped or ambushed, though Emma had to confess to opening an eye every time a board creaked too loudly. Then again, that might just have been the discomfort of sleeping in a hammock at the age of almost fifty-four; at this rate, they would also mark her birthday, the twenty-second of October, away from home. They had been assigned a semi-private spot forward of the bulkhead, likely to prevent any unfortunate encounters between them and the crew, but the accommodation was no different from the usual, and Miranda in particular was clearly in pain the next morning. "You know," she said, as they sat on the deck to eat their breakfast, "it might be easier to clap me in a trunk and shut me in the hold for the rest of this, if that's what I have to endure nightly."

Flint scowled. "If Rogers junior had any decent notions, he'd give you his cabin. Then again, that might detract from his aims of getting Charlotte to share it with him."

Charlotte herself, who was sitting just a few feet away, looked blandly back at Flint. "And I thought you were the one eager for me to give him a few nudges?"

"I was," Flint said. "And still am. But Miranda shouldn't have to suffer in whatever cut-rate arrangement his flunkey sees fit to foist off on us. They should at least offer up the lieutenants' quarters, those have proper bunks. Unless, heaven forfend, Warwick be deprived of his beauty sleep. Or that other one, what's his name, who looks like the wrong end of a troll."

"If he looks like the wrong end of a troll, all the beauty sleep in the world isn't going to help," Killian put in, with a tone that made a joke of it but was trying to rein in Flint's anger before it sparked any further. "But if Matthew does consider himself gentlemanly, he has to at least listen to the request. Charlotte, would you be willing – ?"

"I'll do it, yes," Charlotte said, after another look at Miranda. "Though what I see fit in that regard, and anything else, is my own concern. I think we can all agree that it would be best to keep some influence over our friend the captain, so don't go asking too much about Jack or your son or anything else to overturn it. Whatever happened on the voyage with them before, it doesn't matter. I don't care, and neither should you."

Even as much as she had said essentially the same thing, at least in regard to literally not rocking the boat, Emma frowned. "You really don't care what could have happened to your husband while he was with these – "

"Of course I care," Charlotte said, somewhat impatiently. "Of course I hope it was nothing bad. But Jack and Sam are alive, aren't they? Rogers didn't kill them, and while I doubt they had a pleasure cruise, it wasn't any irreparable damage. Either way, we're not here to avenge any of their mistreatments, imagined or otherwise. There are bigger things at stake."

"Aye, lass," Killian agreed. "But for you to give us that warning at all –  _have_ you had some inkling of whatever Matthew's keeping back? Emma thinks it's something."

"No," Charlotte said. "And frankly, if I did, I'm not sure the lot of you could be trusted to hear it objectively. Of course you love your son, and I my husband, but my concern is that you would use your long-rooted hatred of the Navy to fan a petty insult into something much larger, and curse this voyage's already precarious chances of success past the point of no return. Which seems quite a bit less beneficial than shutting our mouths and getting to them in time, but I could be mistaken. I have no reason to love the Navy either, by the way, and Jack bloody well doesn't. I'm not asking you anything that I'm not also asking of myself." She shrugged, then put down her bowl. "In fact, Matthew has invited me to breakfast, and I'd rather eat whatever he's offering than this slop. I'll ask about new arrangements for Miranda. I'll see you later."

With that, she got up and walked off, confident in her stride despite the roll of the deck; the sky was overcast and the sea was somewhat rougher than it had been yesterday, nothing to concern the old salts, but Charlotte could not have spent much time aboard a ship in open waters. Flint watched her go with a mixture of admiration and irritation. "She's not going to tell us even if she does find anything out," he concluded. "I'll have to make my own enquiries."

"She's… a bit blunt in how she puts it, but she still has a point." Emma laid a hand on his arm. "Remember, we can't – "

"Yes, I remember. I'm not that old yet. We can't provoke Matthew fucking Rogers, even if he provokes us." Flint shook her off. "Sit there and take it like good loyal subjects, since any hint of dissension confirms us as the pirates they'll still hang us for if they get the first chance. Jesus. I'd hope I wasn't the only one who didn't want to gulp that down with this admittedly shit gruel, but likewise, I  _too_ could be mistaken. Good morning."

As he in turn strode off, a small dark stormcloud almost visible over his head, Emma discovered that she had lost her appetite for reasons only incidental to the quality of the cooking. She looked anxiously at Killian. "Do you… do you think we agreed too quickly to this? There could have been other options. We could have waited for Nemo to come back, or tried to book passage on another ship. If this does go wrong, and it's my fault…"

"It's not your fault, love." Killian took her hand, chafing her cold fingers with his own. "It's not easy, I'll say that much, to have all the most uncomfortable parts of our past thrown in our faces like this. Every time one of those Navy pups looks at me with a sneer, or I hear muttering about cripples and traitors behind my back – I remind myself what's at stake, and that reacting angrily would just prove what they think we are. That doesn't mean I don't want to. Even if, for nothing else, to shut them up. But I trust you, and I trust what you've decided to do about it, and I already went through this once with the Lost Boys. I'm not terribly eager for a repeat. It might half-kill me, I won't lie, but I'll keep my temper."

"Thank you." Emma leaned to kiss him quickly on the cheek, then glanced at Liam, Regina, and Miranda. "Do you think we shouldn't try to find out? Whatever Matthew's hiding about Sam?"

"I am opposed to anything that causes unnecessary friction," Miranda said, after a moment. "As indeed are you. But if we should discover a point on which  _necessary_ friction presents itself… well. If Matthew Rogers's is the unlikely vessel on which we reach Sam, that is the great vicissitude of fate. Yet even in so doing, we cannot allow him to think that he has unlimited right to dictate the terms, or that he can push us forever without reprisal."

Emma looked at her mother in surprise and some disquiet, as she had been expecting a more unambiguously conciliatory response. All of them were used to Miranda's customary role as family peacemaker, mediator, and voice of reason to Flint, and she had played it so well for so many years that they relied on it deeply in all aspects of their life. But just then, it had to be remembered that Miranda's present physical frailty was largely due to the legacy of her ordeal and near-death in Charlestown, when she had raged against Peter Ashe's betrayal as ferociously as Flint, and paid a terrible price. Miranda's fire was banked, long-burning and slow as if in underground peat, but it was not by any means extinguished, and could still roar back to life. And while Miranda might be willing to forgive far more than most folk, she had never forgotten.

"Flint needs to take care what questions he asks," Liam said. "We can't fight an entire ship if it turns on us. Perhaps the both of you, Miranda and Regina, had best keep your ears to the ground among the men, if indeed Mrs. Bell does not feel inclined to share everything with us." He considered, then got to his feet with a muffled wince. "I'm not terribly fond of those bloody hammocks either, so let's hope the wind cooperates."

"I could find you a better bed," Regina said. "If you'd just – "

Liam shook his head. "No, I'll live. Good morning, all." He nodded correctly to the women, bent quickly to kiss his wife, and departed in turn.

This was likewise something less than totally reassuring, but at least the tenuous peace held for the rest of the day. Matthew even agreed to move Miranda to one of the forward berths, where she decided to lie down for a while. This apparent show of good faith on his part might have been expected to conciliate Flint somewhat, but instead it seemed to make him even more suspicious, staring evilly at Matthew whenever he was on deck and looking close to barging below whenever he wasn't. He then disappeared for several hours, which it was rather too much to hope was spent in profitable occupation or peaceable reminisce. As the  _Griffin_  sailed steadily into the sunset that evening, the red western horizon was streaked by darker clouds, shot like veins of ore through the cracked porcelain sky, and the sea remained unsettled. Emma did not have to be a superstitious old sailor to feel that this was less than good-omened.

They ate supper above, despite the chill edge in the wind, rather than go below and mingle with the rest of the crew. Flint had still not reappeared, and Emma's imagination began to conjure morbid fantasies of him jumped and attacked in the hold – whether as payment for snooping around or in revenge for old slights, it did not matter. He had, after all, suffered the same fate already in Philadelphia, and his reflexes would be off. Nervously, she set her hardtack aside, and not only due to the likely presence of weevils. "I should go look for him."

Killian looked as if he had been wondering the same thing, and rose to his feet. "Well, you can't go alone, love. It's not  _that_ large of a ship, we should be able to – "

At that moment, however, they were interrupted by the timely entrance of their quarry – which, it became apparent in the next, was far from an unqualified blessing. Flint was half-marching, half-dragging a beefy individual who Emma thought dimly might be the gunner's mate, a man with tree-trunk arms and a healing, if nasty-looking, bruise on his throat. He looked inclined to fight this current mistreatment as well, but Flint drove an elbow savagely into his kidneys, dropping him to his knees before the rest of the family. "There," Flint announced, with considerable and vindictive self-satisfaction. "John Sherwood, gunner's mate. Why don't you tell them what I heard you boasting about, you son of a bitch?"

"James!" Aghast, Emma turned on him. "It doesn't matter, leave it, it won't – "

"Since he's not going to," Flint went on ruthlessly, "allow me. Said that the lieutenants – Warwick and Johnstone – the gunner, and the purser had helped the captain beat the truth out of a pair of molly boys, and he only regretted that he couldn't have helped. Due to that, apparently." He gestured sharply at the bruise. "Seems our friend Jack Bell punched him, to stop Sam from a flogging, but the rest of them got it back later."

"I – what?"Emma stared at Mr. Sherwood, who stared back at her just as defiantly. "What – why would the officers beat a pair of –  _what?"_

"Your lad and the other one, who was buggerin' him." Sherwood wiped his mouth and spoke at last. "Molly filth. Would have properly lashed the little sodomite for failing to trim the sheet right, as the bo'sun ordered, but the other one – "

Flint dealt him a cuff that sent him sprawling onto the boards. "One more, I kill you."

"James,  _no."_ Emma gripped his arm, looking around frantically for any signs of the crew returning from supper. "I don't know what exactly happened here, I don't – stop. You're going to get all of us killed.  _Stop."_

"They had four men beat Sam." Flint's arm remained tense under her grip, and she knew he was referring to more than just the mistreatment of his grandson – also to that grandson's namesake, and the suffering he had likewise endured at the hands of the Navy. How Flint had managed to save him on Antigua, by killing his abuser Captain Josiah Hume, but couldn't save his life, and the weight of the guilt he had lived with ever since. "Seems Jack intervened to put a stop to it before it got too far out of hand – but never mind. So what, you're going to look at this scum and tell him not to worry, that you'll just overlook it? Are you?"

"What?" Killian frowned. "They had  _four men_ beat Sam? A skinny nineteen-year-old boy? Why?"

"Cap'n thought the older one was your spawn,  _Hook."_  Sherwood grinned tauntingly. "Oh aye, I know who the lot o' you are, for all he's being closed-mouthed about it. So he had the pathetic one beat a bit until Bell lied, said he was your son. As I said, wouldn't have done if they weren't a pair of filthy – "

Charlotte raised her eyebrows, looking considerably intrigued by this information, but in either case, Sherwood did not get the chance to finish his sentence. He was punched hard across the face, having just managed to recover from the earlier blow and thus sent tumbling again – not by Flint this time, but by Killian. He stared at his hand as if it did not quite belong to him, as if he had taken himself aback by the violence of that response, but he did not apologize. Sherwood remained down, holding a hand to his jaw; something small and white had skittered across the boards, clearly a tooth. Even he thought better of another provocative remark after that, as Killian blew on his knuckles. "I will join my father-in-law," he said, politely but with a terrifyingly cold edge, "in asking you to choose your words more carefully when it comes to my son. And you're lucky I didn't hit you with what I used to wear on my  _left_ arm. It would have torn your bloody head clean off."

"Both of you." Emma gripped Flint's arm with one hand, and Killian's with the other – as much as to stop from hitting Sherwood herself as to restrain them. "We – we can't, we just can't – "

"Is there some difficulty here?"

Everyone swiveled around to behold Matthew, with his instinctive nose for trouble, emerging from his cabin. At the sight of the gunner's mate on his knees, his eyes narrowed. "Mr. Flint, Mr. Jones. Surely this situation is nothing to do with you?"

Well past the point of backing down, Flint turned on the younger man. "When were you planning to tell us what you did to Sam, exactly?"

Matthew blinked. "I do not recall that I did anything to your son."

"That scum there tells a different story."

"Well then, he is either considerably exaggerating, or inventing outright. I have in fact not laid a hand on him. Mr. Sherwood, I catch you telling tales again, it's a flogging yourself. Get below, I seem to recall you're still on shift until the next bell."

It was Sherwood's turn to blink, then splutter. "Captain, if you're going to say you never – "

" _Now,"_ Matthew repeated. He had not yet raised his voice, but Emma saw the gunner's mate – several inches taller, several dozen pounds heavier, and five or six years older than Matthew – visibly shrink as if a cold wind had passed over him. "Was that unclear?"

"No, Captain. It was not."

"Good. You're dismissed. Good evening."

As Sherwood made for the deck hatch with something that could only be called a scuttle, Matthew watched him go, waited until the latch clicked, then turned back to the family. "I advise you neither to gossip with the crew, nor to place excess credence in whatever they may tell you. Sailors are prone to rumor and invention, you know that. Besides, one might conceivably view it as a deliberate and unwise thwarting of the arrangement which I have generously offered you. I have already ordered my crew that they are under no circumstances to physically engage with you or to take the initiative in any misbegotten vigilante attempts – which means that you, sir, must have engaged first." Matthew looked straight at Flint. "That was foolish."

"What did you do to Sam?"

"I have already informed you. Nothing. Or you may repeat that question, and call me a liar. You had better hope that Mr. Sherwood does not return to spread lurid tales to his mates. I have protected you once. You would be unwise to think I would do so again."

"Look, you – " Flint took a furious step. "We all  _know_ you're twisting the truth every which way, just like your fucking father, and I'm not going to stand for – "

Without moving quickly, but nonetheless in cool, swift decisiveness, Matthew pulled a pistol out of seemingly nowhere and aimed it directly at Flint. "Do not think that I will not, in fact, shoot you right here," he advised. "There is, after all, a vast fund in the Admiralty payable upon verified capture and execution of the pirate James Flint. But if all I wanted was money, or to toady upon fools and bureaucrats, you would have been dead long before you set foot on the  _Griffin._ Do not make me regret my decision."

Flint's eyes burned green fire. Emma clutched Killian's hand, while Charlotte had made a move as if to go for her own pistol, but hadn't drawn it fully. Liam and Regina had decided to eat with Miranda, so it was only the four of them and Matthew on deck, facing each other down. The tension was nauseous. Then Flint shifted his weight halfway, raised a hand, and nodded jerkily. "Fine, Rogers," he said. "After all, I can't  _prove_ anything. We'll speak again when I can."

"I await that day with bated breath," Matthew said, with cold, precise sarcasm. He eased his grip on the gun in turn, tucked it away, and nodded to the women. "Miss Bell, Mrs. Jones. My very best to you. Good evening."

With that, he turned and strode back into the captain's cabin, shutting the door with not-quite-a-bang, as Emma sucked in a ragged breath as if surfacing from a deep and freezing dive. She could sense how close the situation had come to disaster, and did not in the least think that the danger of it had passed. "James," she said, reaching for him. "We have to – "

Flint pulled back from her touch without a word, the lines of his face set in cold, furious relief like marble. Without looking at her, he walked away.

That night was even more interminable than the first, as every creak or squeak seemed to herald a mob of angry crewmen coming to murder them, and Emma finally fell into an uneasy doze just before dawn. Her dreams were murky and unsettling, and Sam was always in them, but just out of reach, or hidden behind a high wall, or screaming voicelessly, reaching out for her as her fingers slipped through his. Then it was the day of his birth, and the midwife saying he had the cord around his throat, and the searing cold terror that had pinioned Emma flat to the bed. But this time, they couldn't get it untangled, as they had in life. He wasn't breathing, he wasn't breathing. He was small and pale and lifeless in her hands, and he  _wasn't breathing –_

Emma woke up with a jerk, covered in cold sweat, heart racing as if she'd just been chased by the bulls of Pamplona. She lay flat (or as flat as one could in a hammock) staring up at the low, scratched ceiling. Killian was still asleep beside her in his own hammock, so clearly he hadn't been visited by any night terrors, and as ever, she tried to reassure herself. But it echoed brittle and hollow and hopelessly in her head, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the threatening incursion of tears. She did not know. She did not know, she could not find him, and even if they made it through this voyage without everything coming to pieces, it might already be too late.

The weather was still holding that morning, but in what felt like a far too-on point metaphor for shipboard conditions, it was decidedly getting worse. The mercury in the glass was down at least two marks since yesterday, and the sea was iron-grey, whipped with white-frothed spume that crashed and hissed. The  _Griffin_ was large and solid enough that nobody was being pitched off their feet, but it was hard to stand upright on deck without holding onto something, and this forced everyone except the sailors on shift into the uncomfortably close quarters below. Emma, Killian, Liam, and Regina played cards with a tattered pack (Charlotte having been invited to billet in Matthew's cabin, leading Flint to make several cynical remarks about how they would be passing the time) and Flint himself had vanished to Miranda's berth; it was unclear if he was finding sympathy there or not. They could hear the crew talking beyond the bulkhead, and kept straining to catch any incriminating words or subjects. They were fairly sure, after all, that they were the topic of conversation, and with them all shut up here, if the men turned bored or fractious or decided to investigate Sherwood's story –

As far as Emma could tell, fear of Matthew's wrath was possibly the only thing keeping the crew from breaching the fragile truce, and if this lot – clearly no shrinking violets – were shirking from it, that was a signal that they should do likewise. Finally, however, she asked something else that had been on her mind since last night. "Why would Jack claim to Rogers that he was Hook's son, apparently in order to protect Sam? Sherwood seemed to be under the impression that they had been… well. Intimate."

"Sam?" Killian raised an eyebrow. "Manage to successfully talk to a lass  _or_ a lad he might like, much less anything else? Seems unlikely."

Emma hit him on the arm. "I don't recall you were terribly adept when we first met."

The tips of Killian's ears went slightly pink, as Liam muffled a snort. Then the elder Jones brother remarked, "I don't know your lad, Killian. But it seems that Jack and Charlotte may view their marriage vows as rather… optional, given this and the conniving she's doing on Rogers."

Killian opened his mouth, paused, and shut it. Then he said, "My conversation with her would incline me to agree in that direction, yes. It's not what you think, and I did promise her I wouldn't tell, but… Jack is her friend, not her lover. Their marriage was made for other purposes. So perhaps neither of them would see it as infidelity to entertain another suitor, but I still can't see Sam managing that. I'd wager it was just an attempt to stop a thrashing."

"Aye, but…" Despite herself, Emma could not shake the feeling that there was more to the story. "Who  _is_ Jack, exactly? This sounds strange, but I still keep thinking we should know him from somewhere, or that we've met, when I know we haven't. And a man called  _Black_ Jack, Black Jack  _Bell_ …" She knew that it was nothing but a faint, desperate wish, but couldn't stop herself. "Are we entirely sure that Sam's son with Mariah Hallett died?"

Killian's hand shook hard enough to drop his cards. "What?"

"His son, the one he received the letter about, that made him want to go back to Massachusetts and apologize to her. It said the boy only lived a few hours, but what if – what if, I don't know, Mariah's father wanted to discourage Sam, or make him think there was no hope, or – "

Killian took rather too long about picking up the cards. "I know why you want to think it, love," he said at last. "But we went back, remember? We went back to Eastham, we went to the place where the  _Whydah…_ where it…" He swallowed. "The Halletts were still there. If there was any word about a boy who could have been Sam's son, we would have heard it. It can't – "

"But we didn't find Mariah." Emma turned to him, their hands reflexively clutching the other's. "We tried to find her and make it right, but we couldn't. If she  _did_ leave and take a child with her… her family could still be on Cape Cod, but if she – "

Liam was watching them with a troubled expression, as he had only met Sam Bellamy briefly, and that not in the warmest of circumstances. But the man  _had_ saved him, Regina, and Miranda from their days adrift after escaping Jamaica, and he knew how much Emma and Killian had both loved Black Sam. Finally, Liam said gently, "It's likely just an odd coincidence."

"Aye," Killian said, in a voice that meant he was trying to convince himself. "We can't go getting mad ideas like this, not when we've finally reckoned on letting him…" He paused again, clearly fighting to finish the sentence, until Emma thought sadly it was no wonder they had told their children so little, when they could barely do it with each other. "Letting him go."

"Do you think we should – " Emma began –

"Tell Flint and Miranda?" Killian completed, reading her mind as usual. "Christ, no. Flint is barely managing to not to fly off the bloody handle at the thought of the Navy mistreating another Sam, and you know better than I do how much Miranda misses him. So what, we'd tell them we've taken it into our heads that somehow, some way, a dead child managed to survive for over twenty years and now cross paths with ours? That would be unspeakably bloody cruel. We're grasping at straws, love. Liam is right. Whoever Jack is, he's someone else."

Emma looked down, then nodded. "I just wished," she said after a moment, still more quietly. "I just wished there was the smallest chance he wasn't completely gone."

"I know." Killian's voice was soft and resonant with pain. "But he is. He is gone. The Sam we have now is the Sam that matters the most, and we both know that. We have to – "

At that moment, they heard a thunk from above, and then a few seconds later, another one. It could have been cargo or cannon shifting, but something about it pricked their communal instincts. The tenor of the crew's conversation from down the gantry had shifted as well, curious and then sharp, and footsteps pounded, dim and muffled, as they started up the ladder. Emma and Killian exchanged a look, and then they, Liam, and Regina all reached for their cloaks at once, card game forgotten. They started at a trot toward the hatch, then faster.

The wind was like a stiff-arm in the face as they emerged, knocking Emma back into Killian, who caught her and then didn't let go, both of them sharply conscious of the presence of danger. They and the rest of the crew struggling topside were thus confronted by the sight of James Flint, jacket stripped off and sleeves rolled up over his freckled arms, preparing to take another swing at Lieutenant Warwick, who was bleeding profusely from the nose and trying to punch back. By the looks of things, Flint had surprised Warwick while he was distracted with the need to manage the vessel through the foul weather, in his capacity as on-duty deck officer, and some of the men up in the yards were shouting down, but the gale stole their voices away before they reached the others. Then the  _Griffin's_ bow rode down heavily into the trough of a wave, which soaked everyone with a blast of frigid spray, and which seemed to awaken Flint to the realization of an audience. Instead of restraining him, however, it seemed to give him license to cut loose, which he did with another blow to send Warwick somersaulting over a coil of rope. The lieutenant struggled to rise as Flint stalked toward him, and –

" _Hey,_  you pirate bastard!" Lieutenant Johnstone, Warwick's compatriot and the one Flint had derided as looking like the wrong end of a troll, came rushing out of the crowd and jumped on Flint's back, forcing him to his knees with a crash. He got his arm locked around Flint's throat, threatening to crush his windpipe if he kept struggling. "One more twitch, and you finally get that good long look at hell!"

"Mate!" Killian bellowed. "Jesus! Don't!"

Flint struggled to look around as much as he could in the headlock, spotted them out of the corner of his eye, and – well, it was difficult to see what exactly his reaction was, given the circumstances. He did mount an energetic effort to get to his feet, however – and then, eyes fixed beyond Killian and Emma's shoulders, abruptly stopped. The look on his face was terrifying.

Killian and Emma themselves both spun around, just in time to see Mr. Sherwood marching Miranda toward them, her feet dragging like a broken puppet's. "Keep fighting, pirate," he said, "and I break your wife's neck. Want to risk that?"

It was at this exact flammable moment that the door of the captain's cabin opened and Matthew Rogers emerged – wearing his jacket, waistcoat, boots, and sword, but with his cravat undone and hair untidy enough to make Emma think that Charlotte had not been adverse to offering him a few bribes of a physical nature. Charlotte herself was on his heels, staggering slightly as the wind hit her, and her eyes went briefly wide as she took in the scale of the imbroglio on deck. Then they went very narrow as they fixed on Flint, and Miranda across the way with Sherwood clamped on. "Jesus  _fucking_ Christ," she said. "I  _knew_ you were going to do this."

"He did it," Flint managed, jerking his head at Warwick. "Him and the other three, they were the ones who beat Sam. So if I was doling out some just desserts – "

He cut off with a gagging noise as Johnstone tightened his grip. Every eye turned to Matthew, who was staring at the disorder aboard his vessel and the ignoring of his express orders with an ugly, ice-white look that most unpleasantly recalled his father at the depths of extremity. He did not noticeably react for a long moment, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Then he said, "Mr. Sherwood, let go of Mrs. – Hamilton immediately."

"What?" The gunner's mate goggled. "The old bitch will just – "

It was-possible that Matthew would have taken him to task for once more questioning his orders in the slightest degree, but he never got the chance. Sherwood was not bothering to pay much attention to an elderly, frail lady, clearly considering her a negligible threat, and at that, Miranda stamped violently on his foot, flailed out, and snatched hold of the boat hook from where it was mounted on the mast. She spun around and swung it with both hands, hard as a quarterstaff, and it caught Sherwood on the side of the head with a sickening, split-fruit crack. His eyes rolled back, showing their whites, and he dropped like a stunned ox.

By the looks of things, Miranda was on the verge of braining him again and thoroughly, but she staggered as the ship hit another trough, and had to steady herself on the hook like a cane. Then she looked up, eyes hot and wild. "Any other man touches me," she said, half-hysterically, "and I  _will_ kill him! The lot of you! I will kill you all, I swear to fucking Jesus!"

The Navy sailors might have laughed at such a threat coming from a small, silver-haired woman, but none of them did, and more than a few hands seemed to be reaching for pistols or sabers or anything else, in case she charged. Then Emma struck out into the middle of the circle, pierced by a hundred eyes, until she reached Miranda, put an arm around her shoulders – Miranda barely seemed to notice her, staring straight forward, blind and furious – and pulled her back toward Killian and the others. Sherwood was out cold, blood trickling from the gash on his head, and Emma in fact was not sure that he wasn't dead. Her eyes swung to Matthew, panicking.

For his part, Matthew seemed transfixed on the edge of an impossible abyss. His lips moved briefly, as if he was saying something, or talking himself into it. Then he said, "Tie the pirate to the mast. Hands and feet. No lashes – yet. He is to be left there until he finds himself in a more cooperative frame of mind. As for the rest of you, you will come to my cabin and account for this deplorable scene immediately and full, and if I am not satisfied that this was merely some fit of temper on the part of your blood-maddened patriarch – "

Johnstone and Warwick, still bleeding, tried to wrestle Flint to his feet, one on each arm, but he twisted violently and head-butted Warwick, making him take a few reeling steps backward. Miranda fought like an alley cat to get away from Emma, and both she and Killian had to hold her, trying to stop themselves from losing their footing on the slippery boards. It was reasonably plain that Flint would never consent to be lashed to the mast in any sense of the word, and yet since this was on the brink of open brawling or worse, they were fortunate that Rogers had not summarily shot him as he had threatened earlier, and just –

For a moment, Emma thought that some of the men had managed to get the cannons on the deck turned and pointed at the fracas, though why they would fire at their own comrades, she didn't know. A boom and flash lit up the fog, there was a high, eerie whistling sound audible even over the wind, and then the far railing crumbled into splinters as men scrambled for cover. Lieutenant Warwick looked around angrily, as if likewise thinking that Emma and company had brought a carronade to the party, and the next shot exploded his head into pulp, blood and bone splattering onto Flint and Johnstone. Warwick's body swayed, then – almost in slow motion – fell.

"FIRE! WE'RE UNDER FIRE!" That was Liam, his old captain's instincts apparently picking up what nobody else had managed to put together. "AFT PORT QUARTER!"

Right on cue, they glimpsed a series of dazzling muzzle flashes from that precise direction, and Liam lunged at Killian, Emma, Regina, and Miranda, knocking them painfully flat to the deck. An instant later, the third round came shrieking in, and Flint likewise dove away barely in the nick of time. Lieutenant Johnstone, still stunned by the instant and grisly death of his comrade, was not quite as fortunate. The cannonball punched straight through his chest, gutting him like a fish, as he was blasted backwards against the broken railing as a sprawled and jerking corpse. With both tiers of second-in-command thus removed within the space of a few moments, the men appeared almost frozen. They followed orders, they didn't give them, and this –

"Evasive action!" Liam bolted to his feet and spun on the helmsman – who wasn't more than nineteen or twenty himself, and to judge from the petrified look on his face, the  _Griffin_ had not yet taken heavy fire since her deployment to the Indies. "EVASIVE ACTION!"

The poor sailor fumbled at the wheel, clearly unsure how to work the ship with the wind; if he pointed them too far into it, they would go into irons, slew, and come to almost a dead halt, a sitting duck. Rather than take that risk, or try to shout instructions, Liam apparently decided that it would be more profitable to cut out the middle man. He ran to the wheel and grabbed hold of it himself, hauling them around to run on broad reach as much as was humanely possible in the rising tempest. "You two!" he bellowed at Flint and Killian. "You know what to do!"

Flint and Killian stared at each other, stared at Liam, and almost inadvertently, stared at Matthew. It was true, of course, that they  _were_ trained as Navy lieutenants, and that the  _Griffin_  had just lost both her own lieutenants in spectacular fashion, but like  _this_ –

A fourth round came hailing in, as Liam just managed to steer them away from it, and that broke the spell. Flint and Killian spun off in separate directions, shouting, as Matthew seemed to decide on the instant that if any of them were getting out of this, punishment would have to wait for later. He barked at Killian to take over the gun deck, Flint to run the sweeps, and even more surprisingly, both of them wasted no time in argument. Matthew himself scrambled for the quarterdeck to take charge of the aboveboard defenses, and Regina clutched at Emma's arm as they took another swinging yaw. "What the – what the  _hell_ is going – "

"It's wartime, we're in Spanish waters, and this is a fully-flagged Royal Navy ship!" Emma instinctively shielded Regina, Miranda, and Charlotte, keeping them low, as the  _Griffin_ got off her first return volley, the broadside thundering nearly enough to deafen them at close range. She had no idea who or what they were shooting at, but it was almost surely a frigate on patrol from Havana or Spanish Hispaniola, since they would not be obliged to bother with any niceties of a warning shot; they were entitled to open fire to disable and destroy on the spot. Emma was in fact having nasty flashbacks to Henry Jennings sneaking up on her in the fog, taking her and Miranda prisoner, and sinking the  _Blackbird_  – somewhere which must be not that far from here, really, given as they had been leaving Jamaica at the time. "We'll have to try to outrun them!"

Regina opened her mouth as if to ask what made Emma so sure, remembered that she had been a pirate in her own right (and that Regina had tried to have the Jones brothers sink her for the fact) and for once, decided not to argue. It was clear that the unknown aggressors had been able to get close to the  _Griffin_  without raising the alarm due to both the bad weather and everyone being distracted with Flint's fiasco, and nobody felt like a repeat venture. Oh God. This was bad.

With Liam steering, Matthew commanding the topside batteries, Killian on the main gun deck below, and Flint on the long nines, the  _Griffin_ started to stretch the distance, as everyone kept their eyes strained for any telltale fireball in the murk that would mean they had scored a fatal hit on their enemy. All they had to go on for its position was to return fire in the direction that it came from, and once or twice, Emma thought she glimpsed the faintest black shape of the other ship in the swirling mist, but could not be sure. Was it the Spaniards? Had João da Souza slunk away from Nassau, tail between his legs, and rushed back to Cuba to recruit more help, brooding on payback for the insults the family had done him? Emma was sure they had not seen the last of that greasy scoundrel, alas, and Governor Güemes and the rest were not about to relinquish the hunt for their long-lost treasure so easily. It was perfectly possible that they would reach Skeleton Island, sail in, and find a Spanish man-of-war already anchored in the bay.

Still. They were distant enough that she could not be sure, but these guns sounded the wrong bore to be Spanish  _tercias_ , the long-barreled bronze twenty-four pounders. Emma paused, waited for the next break to be sure there was no chance of being gruesomely dismembered, and then crawled across the deck. Trying not to look at the blasted body of Lieutenant Johnstone, she followed the trail of smudged and splattered blood, reached the deformed ball, and checked it for a maker's mark. Spanish cannonballs were fairly easy to identify, usually had a foundry stamp and Philip V's royal sigil, but it took only a quick check to see that this was not one. There was some other mark, but it didn't look familiar, and it was molten and distorted too far to make it out precisely. It couldn't be English – or so Emma thought, because why would an English ship be firing on a fellow countryman, especially the Navy? But –

Something occurred to her just then, and she jumped to her feet, pelting across the deck, awash in gun smoke, to the helm. "Liam," she said breathlessly. "Liam, did you – did that – you said on the crossing from England, Lady Fiona's ship attacked the  _Nautilus_ and that was when you escaped, but that's the one we're chasing from Barbados – so did any of that sound – ?"

Liam, still occupied with wrestling the recalcitrant fifth-rater into line, almost didn't hear her. Then it got through to him, and he looked up with a jerk. "What? Do you mean – you think that was the  _Titania?_ Bloody hell, I  _thought –_ for just a minute, but with the wind and weather and the distance, there's no way to be sure. It's Spanish waters, it's – "

"It's not the Spaniards." Emma showed him the cannonball. "This isn't Spanish ordnance. I couldn't think why an English ship would be firing on a Royal Navy vessel, but if it's them, of course Lady Fiona wouldn't want Matthew trying to rescue Gold – "

"Jesus." Liam wiped his grey-brown curls out of his soot-smeared face with the back of his forearm. He spun around and stared back at the ominously empty and silent horizon – which five minutes ago would have been a very good thing, but it was sinking into both of them that they had very likely just been firing on the ship with Sam (and Jack) aboard as well as Gold. Without another word, Liam heaved on the helm, trying to bring them back around, but the wind shrieked and skidded against the sails, rocking them without result. Even a comparatively agile man-of-war like the  _Griffin_ did not change course on a sixpence, especially in gusts this strong. Liam cursed. "We need to reset the sails! Do you know the rig into the wind for a three-master?"

"The  _Blackbird_ was a brigantine, it's different." Emma's heart was pounding in her throat. She was aware that if they altered course and captaincy on the  _Griffin_ without Matthew's express permission, it counted as –  _quelle surprise –_ an act of piracy, and commandeering another Royal Navy vessel was stretching their luck well beyond its limits. But if  _that_ was the ship they had been chasing – if they, God forbid, had done enough damage to sink her –

She remained frozen a moment longer, then whirled off toward Matthew, who was shouting at someone to hold steady. "Captain Rogers." She grabbed his arm, even as he jerked around with an outraged look. "Captain Rogers, I think the ship that was attacking us, it was the one with Gold and Sam aboard, the  _Titania._ You need to give the order to pursue."

Matthew clawed his loosened, blowing hair out of his face, as the ribbon holding it back had broken. "What?"

"The ship!" Emma's chest felt as if a huge fist had closed around it, squeezing and squeezing. "It wasn't the Spaniards, it was – I think it was Lady Fiona's. Bring her around. Bring her around!"

Matthew's nostrils flared. Without further ado, he pulled his spyglass from his jacket, untwisted it, and scanned the endless grey banks of fog back and forth, searching for some sight of the enemy, anything to give them a hint as where to set out. Emma squinted as hard as she could, praying for any break in the turmoil of clouds, the distant grey shadow of rain pounding the foaming sea.  _Oh God. Oh God. Where are you? Where are you?_

Matthew looked back and forth for a long moment more. Then he cursed, dropping the glass to his side. "I can't see a damned thing. They could be anywhere. If it even was them."

"Trust me," Emma begged him. "It's not Spanish, I looked at the cannonball, it's not. Liam thought he recognized the sound of the guns.  _Please!"_

Matthew searched her face. For a moment, she thought he was going to refuse, to remind her that the lot of them had been on the brink of naked mutiny less than an hour ago, he had no reason to trust them, and if all was fair in love and war, he might well have ordered Flint to be flogged. But something – she didn't know what – must have convinced him. He turned away and raised his voice over the screaming wind.  _"Club haul her!"_

The men darted to the capstan to unship the massive leeside anchor, and Emma shouted at Miranda, Regina, and Charlotte to brace hard. Club hauling was the fastest way to turn a square-rigger going full speed, but it was also a risky maneuver in the best of times, and necessitated a captain who knew what he was doing to the nicety, and the exact moment to cut loose. Emma herself grabbed hold of the railing as they heard the anchor dropping, rope paying out, and Matthew yelled at the crew to get ready to change her. The men clawed up the swaying shrouds, crawling on hands and knees on the yards, which were vibrating hard enough that Emma feared they would plunge into the sea. But they were tenacious bastards, as the Navy scabs always were, and managed to get the sheets reset, even as lines tore out of their hand like whips. It was at least twenty minutes since Emma had first suspected the identity of their attackers, and every second they lost felt like death by a thousand paper cuts. The  _Titania_ was somewhere, somewhere, desperately near and agonizingly far away, unseen, inchoate.  _Please,_ Emma prayed, she wasn't even sure to who.  _Please, please, please._

They had an instant of warning before it happened, and then the anchor caught, slamming through them like one of Zeus' thunderbolts. With the wind as hard as it was, they were inviting themselves to be torn apart if Matthew misjudged this in the slightest bit, and out of the corner of her eye, Emma could see Flint trying to struggle back from the foredeck, apparently in the interest of giving the order himself. But she shook her head at him violently. Flint had already gotten them into enough trouble as it was, and if he tried to usurp this too –

Just when the anchor cable moaned and shrieked as if it could take no more, and they were almost on their side, a wall of iron sea rushing up at them, Matthew roared for the cut. The crewmen standing at the ready with hatchets swung them down violently, the  _Griffin_ defied gravity and any law of physics known to Sir Isaac Newton, and suddenly they were free, sprinting across the waves in the opposite direction. The loss of an anchor was one of the unavoidable sacrifices of club hauling, another reason it was only called for in dire circumstances, and now they only had one, which would have to hold her in high seas. Emma was soaked and shivering to the bone, but she didn't care. Matthew lifted the spyglass again. "There!" he yelled. "There! Six degrees starboard!"

Emma struggled up next to him, almost forgetting to ask if he could give the glass to her and nearly prepared to snatch it from his hands if not. But she could just see it even without it, the distant dark tip of a mainmast. A powerful, sick relief scourged her insides like acid. So the  _Titania_ was still afloat, there was still a chance, there was still –

– unless this  _wasn't_ the  _Titania,_ but another ship altogether, and this was wrong, all wrong, she was wrong, and they were about to be pounded to splinters by a proper Spanish broadside –

Once more, Matthew Rogers raised his voice.

" _Fire!"_


	23. XXIII

The first thing Jack Bellamy felt was pain. It screwed into him dully from all sides, like being gnawed by a mouth full of broken teeth, not acute enough to cause real suffering and not easy enough to be forgotten. He was not quite certain whether he was awake or asleep, or in some hinterland halfway-between, as while he was vaguely aware of his body, he couldn't move it, or open his eyes, or remember how he had gotten there. He had learned long ago not to struggle or kick or shout in this situation, it only made it worse. Calm and collected discipline, that was the key. Begin at the last known point, and retrace your steps. Localize the source.

There was a muffled, cottony pounding in his head that was making it hard to concentrate, and the lingering, vile taste of something oily on his tongue. It felt faintly like the aftereffects of a bad night of drinking, which Jack had only ever experienced a few times in his life. Once, to be exact. On one of the first nights out of London, feeling wild and mad and free, he had drunk nearly all of the small cask of Madeira red that the captain of the  _Persephone_ kept aboard for passengers, blacked out, was found by Charlotte with a deeply disapproving scowl the next morning, and spent most of the day vomiting it over the rail anyway, shaking and clammy. There were other men who used drink to drown their demons, Jack knew, but after that, the idea no longer had any appeal to him. How could you countenance being out of control like that, blind, dumb, deaf, at the mercy of any canal you might fall into, or whatever passing scoundrel meant you ill, or worse? Drunkenness, in Jack's opinion, was merely one of the many stupid things men did to themselves, and a weakness he certainly could not afford, even if the experience had been more pleasant. He'd barely touched a drop again. Until –

He strained as hard as he could, having a hazy recollection that indeed, wine had played some part in the recent proceedings. Not nearly enough to leave him sozzled like this, but it did confirm his suspicions that nothing good ever happened when it was involved. Jesus, why couldn't he remember? It was a blur. Supper, candlelight, danger, ship. Asking about Howe, fuck, yes, he unfortunately did remember that part. And then Sam –

Sam. Jack's abused skull rattled with the word, and despite feeling as if there were ten-ton weights on each of his eyelids, they managed to fly open. He sat bolt upright, saw nothing since it was pitch black, cracked his head on a low beam, and fell flat again, cursing madly under his breath. This unfortunate use of thirty seconds improved his comprehension of the overall predicament in no part, but now, in pieces, it was starting to come back. Fiona, Lady Fiona, they were on the  _Titania,_ they'd been at supper and he'd asked her about finding Howe. After that, nothing. Something or someone had knocked him out, but he didn't remember an attack. And with the nasty taste on his tongue, he thought it had been subtler. The evil old bitch had drugged him.  _And what the hell did she do to Sam?_

Jack rolled to one side and spat, which didn't do much either. He still felt a very strong urge to be sick, and the banging in his head was almost unbearable. He reached out with both hands, still blind, trying to figure out where he was, and had to repress a brief and nonsensical notion that he had been buried alive. Of course he couldn't be bloody buried, he was on a ship in the middle of the ocean, or at least he had been at last recall, and he didn't think they could have gotten quite so far as to be otherwise. It smelled wet, though, and moldy, like the deep bowels of a ship that never saw sunlight. Something scuttled past his fingers, which had to be a rat. Fine, then. The  _Titania._ He was somewhere deep in the bilge _,_ stuffed into a narrow brace in the hull, and his boots splashed in water as he swung them over. The sound echoed eerily, like a man in a cave, stumbling in to behold a strange and fabulous underworld, the gateway into the realm of the dead. The darkness was like ink, utterly impermeable.

Jack waited a moment to be sure that his shaky legs would bear his weight, then swung upright. He still had to grab for support, though, and winced as he caught a splinter. He was madly tempted to see if he could find something to stave a hole in the beams, escape below the waterline, and swim away as the whole damn thing sank, but he knew that was impracticable. First, he couldn't make a big enough hole; second; the incoming rush of water would drown him faster than he could fight through it, and third, he still didn't know what had happened to Sam. Other ways to sink the  _Titania_ might then present themselves, but not yet.

The water was halfway up his calves by the time Jack reached the bilge pumps, which he found by banging his shoulder into them. He kept blinking, trying to adjust his eyes to the blackness, but there was simply no scrap of light to compensate. Nobody appeared to be down here, at any rate, and he wasn't about to go shouting. He listened hard, for any sound of a fracas from the deck, or the thud of running footsteps, or even the boom of guns. None of those. Nothing. He wondered if the Angel of Death had passed over in the night, like the Jews preparing to flee from Egypt, and him the only survivor.

Annoyed at himself for such stupid fantasies, Jack scoffed and shook his head. He fumbled and bumbled his way toward the ladder and swung onto it, moving as quietly as he could and ignoring the continued ache in his head, which felt as if it was being bloody trepanned. He reached the top in a few more moments and stepped out onto the orlop deck, which was lit faintly by a still-burning lantern. Even that small amount of light, after the absolute and complete darkness, hurt his eyes, and he had to screw them up against it. He had to remain stooped, as the ceiling was too low for him to stand upright, and scuttled across the boards like a crab, still looking for anything to be used as a weapon. If worse came to worse, he'd use his bare hands, but he didn't fancy that against the entire –

As he was bending over, searching through a heap of sacks and crates, someone grabbed him by the arm.

Jack reacted instinctively, snapping around as fast as a jerked rope and preparing his free hand for a punch, which was knocked aside. He had only a sense of his assailant as a monstrous shadow, but that was enough to know, as he doubted there could be two men aboard of that size. "Bones," he hissed. "You son of a bitch, what the  _fuck_  did you do to us?"

"Shut up." Billy Bones looked almost literally like his name, a drawn skull mask, eyes two gleaming sparks in the hollows. "What are you doing up here?"

"I woke up stuffed into the bilges, having been slipped some vile drug, knocked over the head, and who knows what else. Now you tell me what happened to Jones, or – "

Billy snorted a bitter, silent laugh. "You can thank me for saving his life before you go on any further there, Bellamy."

"What?" Jack narrowed his eyes.  _"You?_ Lady Fiona's devoted henchman? I can't see it."

"You can't see a great deal, I imagine." Billy let go of him, slowly, and took half a step back. "Lady Fiona drugged you both, and tried to kill him. I broke in just in time to pull her off him. Convinced her that it was not yet the right time, and there was more use to be had from him first. You, though, I knew you'd raise hell the moment you awoke – or worse, still be determined to take up with her. I thought it better you were out of the way."

Jack stared at him coldly. "I don't believe a word of it. Sam tried to convince you to help us, and you didn't. Unless – what, some eleventh-hour change of heart? Decided that you  _were_ going to be a good boy again after all?"

Billy shifted his weight menacingly. "You know, I think I should have let you die after all."

"Noted." Jack folded his arms. He wasn't to the same scale of sheer brawn as Billy, but he was only a few inches shorter, and he was, if he did say so himself, fairly accomplished in his brawling capabilities. Let the big stupid lunkhead take a swing at him, he was ready for a fight. Still, though, something occurred to him, and he couldn't quite stop himself. "Is this where you tell me you've been playing Gold  _and_ Lady Fiona this whole time? Dangling the lure of Skeleton Island in front of them, drawing out their traps and making them show their hands, all their possible attacks and techniques, to finally actually destroy them?"

Billy's eyes continued to glitter back at him. He didn't say a word.

"Well?" Jack demanded. "Why would you do that?"

"Your. . . friend," Billy said after a moment, with a tone that made it clear he had heard Jack's claims to Lady Fiona as regarded the virgin or non-virgin status of Sam's blood. "He said I just liked to serve, it didn't matter who, and I would turn on my old master as soon as I disliked them. Once, long ago, he would have been right. But I stopped  _serving_ after Skeleton Island. I approached Gold about selling him the coordinates, if he would make arrangements to kill Flint. Then I offered them to his sister instead, when I'd heard of her in my travels, knew she was even worse than him, and this entire time, as you've seen, I've played her loyal sidekick so well that she has no reason to mistrust confiding all her secrets and intentions to me. So yes. I intend to destroy them all, and not just them individually, but all the snares and traps around them. Him, her, and Flint. And you, I think, are going to help me do it."

"Am I?" Jack almost laughed. Aye, two of those at least he had no problem with, and he almost had to feel a grudging respect for Billy's balls in possibly the most massive revenge plot to be concocted in the history of the human race. "Why am I going to do that?"

"Jonathan Howe," Billy said. "I hear you want to know where to find him."

Despite himself, Jack's heart skipped an uneasy beat. "Do I?"

"We both fucking well know you do, Bellamy. And we both know that you and I have a lot in common, that you're a man who could be useful, knows what he's doing. You were willing to listen to Lady Fiona back there. You weren't just bluffing."

"And you were eavesdropping."

"Given as I reckoned she was going to try to kill one or both of you, you're welcome for that, by the way. I know who Howe is, and  _what_ he is. I had the misfortune to cross his path some years ago. You help me, and I tell you where he is. Do you want it, or not?"

Jack's throat was dry. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, trying to look more composed than he felt. "You're bluffing," he said. "You have no way of knowing that."

"Your funeral." Billy shrugged. "Suppose you don't want Gold or Lady Fiona dead so much as that, then? Still want Jones to try to do it himself? We likewise know he can't. Or if he succeeded, it would destroy him in ways he doesn't understand. But if so – "

"Jesus," Jack said. "Shut up, all right? Shut up."

Billy wore the triumphant look of a man who knew damn well he had gotten under his enemy's skin. "He's Emma Swan's son," he said after a pause. "I don't want to kill him if I can avoid it. I certainly don't intend to let the mad bitch do it. Don't tell me you don't want to protect him, don't waste your breath. You also want to kill Howe, as you bloody well should. So?"

Jack hesitated. "What do you want from me?"

"Not much," Billy said. "For now, to shut up and do what I tell you. Right now, we need to make Lady Fiona think you're dead, or at least out of the way. She knows you'll interfere in what she's planning for Sam, and next time, I imagine she  _will_ use a lethal dose. Or you can just sit back and let her have her way with him, which I don't see you doing. So. Out of sight you stay."

"And then?"

"Trust me when I promise you," Billy said, "that Flint and the others are on our tail. I don't know how long it will take them to catch up to us, or where that will be, but they will. Then when they do, you'll jump ship and go over to them. Trust me again when I say that they will welcome you with open arms, and be stunned and disbelieving. Then – " He paused, then shrugged again. "Then you kill Flint. That's my price."

"Wh – " Jack should have potentially seen this coming, but it still rocked him back onto his heels. "What, all this time and you don't want to do it yourself?"

"Oh, I want to do it myself," Billy said grimly. "But I want you to do it more."

"Why?"

"You're Sam Bellamy's nephew."

"I – what? Yes, I am. Why the fuck does that matter?"

"Trust me," Billy said for the third time. "It matters."

Jack regarded him narrowly, knowing full well that this was just as treacherous a partner to be entering into commerce with as Lady Fiona – possibly more, given the way Billy seemed to want to kill everyone who had ever wronged him or indeed anyone – but still not quite able to reject him out of hand. After a moment he said, "James Flint is Sam Jones' grandfather."

"Yes, so?"

"So you think I'll go over and kill his grandfather in the name of protecting him?"

"I don't give a shit what you do or don't do to protect Sam," Billy said. "I already did say I wasn't going to let Lady Fiona at him, if I could. That should be good enough for you."

"Funnily enough, it's not. Where's Sam?" Jack still couldn't work out when he'd become genuinely concerned about the annoying little chatterbox. "What happened to him?"

"I took him back to the lieutenants' quarters you two were. . . sharing. He has a gash in his arm, and she cut him up a bit by the collarbone, but I pulled her off before she hit anything vital. I dropped by the surgeon's kit for him, so there you have it."

At that, Jack's imagination conjured an unwelcome picture of Sam huddled in the dark of the tiny berth, struggling to bandage his own wounds, likely feeling the aftereffects of the drug as well, wondering what had happened or if Lady Fiona was still planning whatever mischief she had only been narrowly thwarted in. Probably bloody terrified, and pretending not to be, even if there was no one around to see. Sam Jones, innocent as a bleating lamb and twice as oblivious, with his loving family and his comfortable life. This was supposed to be what Jack had wanted for him, that he be cursorily stripped of his illusions and exposed to the cruel reality of life, but it still twisted his stomach uncomfortably. As to why, who knew.

"I want to see him," Jack said abruptly. "You could be lying."

"I could be," Billy said. "But I'm not. And what are you going to tell him if you do? Exactly? Besides, we both know he can't lie to save his life, literally. If he knows you're alive, he'd give it away to Lady Fiona, and then she'd know you were still down here. And that would put us back to the start, and you'd both end up dead."

"So you want me to cut bait, save myself, get my own revenge, and leave him behind?" Jack's voice almost rose above a whisper, and he forced it back down. "With just your  _word_ that you'll protect him from whatever foul fate Lady Fiona has in mind for him? Do you think I'm as completely godforsaken as – "

"As what?" Billy's smile was grimmer than ever. "As me?"

Jack shut his mouth with a slight click, as that had indeed been where he was going with that. Still, he refused to back down. "You have no way to prove that you could tell me where Howe is, that I would be gaining anything useful from this bargain, or doing anything other than helping  _you_ in  _your_ deluded little crusade. Fuck you, I'm going – "

"I supposed you might say that." Billy still did not appear overly flustered. "So I have another offer. There's a French girl, isn't there? Alix, isn't that her name? You and your wife have been trying to free her for years, haven't you?"

Jack had been all set to turn and storm away (where, he had no bloody idea) but that caught him like a stone in the back of the head. He remained where he was, counting breaths, until he finally wheeled back. "How the _devil_ do you know that?"

"I've been dangling obediently on Lady Fiona's arm for a while." Billy took a step. "And before that, I sailed on most of the merchant routes of Europe and Africa. I know plenty of fucking things. Her name is Alix Saint-Clair, and her father – supposed, anyway – is Armand Saint-Clair, an evil prick who's tragically kept her and your wife apart for reasons best known to himself. So you have been, as I said, trying to free her. No luck, though. Am I warm?"

Jack's throat was dry. "The hell do you mean,  _supposed_ father?"

"I mean he isn't her father," Billy said. "She was adopted at birth. Placed with a rich French couple on Saint-Domingue, who returned to France when she was three. I could tell you a lot more, but of course. You aren't interested."

Jack's fist clenched involuntarily at his side. He knew he couldn't thrash it out of Billy, which would be his preferred method of dealing with this situation, but his chest felt constricted, the air suddenly too thick and damp to breathe. For the life of him, unfortunately, he couldn't see how Billy could be bluffing about this, and he had promised Charlotte, he had  _promised._ Billy hadn't been able to sway him when it was a matter of only offering his revenge, but if it was hers as well. . . try as he might, Jack could feel his resolve weakening. "Fine," he growled at last. "Let's say I'm listening."

"That's the bargain." Billy remained looking at him levelly. "When the time comes, you go over and kill Flint. I'll make sure Sam doesn't die while you do. Then you return, tell me it's done, and I'll give you the information about Howe and Alix. You go on your merry way, get what you want, and so do I. Well? Anything else you want to say?"

Jack felt punched in the chest. He was terribly close to agreeing, and in fact might have done so on the spot, bad an idea as it was likely to be, but there was still one outstanding roach in the rushes. "What about Sam?"

"What about him?" Billy looked as if he was starting to lose his patience on this point. "I already promised I'd hold up my end of the bargain. And – "

"Aye," Jack said. "Because your word is so trustworthy, when you've been deceiving and conning Lady Fiona this whole time, telling her everything she wants to hear, doing all her dirty work without demur. And even if you did, I'm supposed to go kill his grandfather, wreck his family, and vanish in the night as if I didn't just – "

"What happened to making them want to pay?" Billy raised an eyebrow. "What happened to insisting you didn't care about them? We all have to make hard choices, Bellamy. We all have to decide what's worth more. Unless you've forgiven your father – "

"No," Jack said, close to a snarl. "I haven't. And don't call him my father."

Once more, Billy had the look of a man knowing the argument was essentially won, and would just sit back and wait for his dim-witted opponent to realize it. He pointed. "There's some grain sacks over there," he said. "You can sleep in those. I'll bring down food. Remember, Sam can't know where you are, he'll give you away. Besides, I think we both know you couldn't look him in the eye and go through with it, so it's better you don't. Think about it, Bellamy." He turned to go. "As I said. Unless you somehow don't want vengeance on Howe after all. And if that's not the case, then you can understand my feelings on Flint. Sleep tight."

Jack remained where he was, watching Billy's stooped shadow make its way to the ladder and then climb above, out of sight, the hatch slamming and cutting off the brief grey light that had slanted down. He had absolutely no bloody,  _bloody_ idea what to do. His usual contrary nature insisted on rushing above and finding Sam immediately, but the inexorable counterweight –  _I'll give you the information about Howe and Alix –_ held him in place. Sam  _was,_ after all, an annoying little chatterbox, who had abruptly entered Jack's life, clung like a barnacle, and caused no end of inconvenience on the way, and if he got out of this with hide intact, would be doing better than anyone expected. Jack had already done far more for him than he had to, and at considerable risk to his own skin along the way. He didn't owe anything else. He didn't.

After a pause, Jack made his way restlessly down the boards to the indicated grain sacks, and sat down in them, his spine complaining from the protracted bending. He leaned against a crate and pulled his knees up to his chest, hearing the dull thud of his own heart in his ears.  _Unless you somehow don't want vengeance on Howe after all._ And no matter what, he could not imagine such a world, such a circumstance. It felt like pulling his lungs out of his chest and asking him to keep breathing. There would never be another moment of his life, until it was accomplished, that he did not want revenge on Howe.

One of Jack's earliest childhood memories, which must be not long after he was brought to London at the age of three, was of his stepmother, Mrs. Howe, grabbing him by the ear and demanding to know how that trollop Jane Bellamy had cozened her husband. Jack, of course, was far too young to have a clue what she meant by "cozening," far less what it had to do with him, and he kept tearfully pleading that he didn't know. She had switched him once for lying, another for back-talking, and made him sleep in the kitchen with the servants, an arrangement which she would have kept up if a visiting minister had not asked in concern why the boy didn't seem to have a proper bed. Mrs. Howe, perish the thought, did not want to appear less than Christian, and since Jack's half-sister, the Howes' legitimate daughter Laura, had timidly tried to befriend him, she allowed that he could have the spare attic room.  _I thought that was a palace, then. I thought she was going to start liking me, and all would be well._

To say the least, Mrs. Howe had not started to like him. Indeed, even during the long periods while Captain Howe was away at sea – interludes which Jack had, again foolishly, at first looked forward to – she instructed the house manservants and footmen to dole out exactly the same treatment that her husband would. When he was old enough to understand the circumstances of his birth, Jack had tried feeling sorry for her, to understand that it must be hard to have your husband's illegitimate son brought from the country and given a place in the home before your eyes. He remembered, at the age of ten or so, going to her with a bouquet of flowers he'd bought from the stand down the street, and apologizing to her for his mother's wicked cozening of Captain Howe. He thought she would be pleased that he finally accepted the truth, but instead she had dashed the flowers from his hand and demanded to know where he had gotten the money for them. When he wouldn't tell her, she decided he must have stolen them, and beat him with the broomstick for thievery. He had almost been relieved when Captain Howe arrived home the next week.  _As much as he did to me, she might have done even more._

After that, he had given up on ever reconciling with her, or either of them. There had been that scene with the Lords of the Admiralty when he was twelve, the one that left him with the stripes on his back, and as Howe received fewer assignations as a result of his disgrace, he was home more often, time he productively used in culling the "treason" from Jack, the shadow which he and his wife saw at every turn. Jack had been fifteen when Howe decided that this civilized education should also encompass the question of his intimate habits, as he knew that both the pirate stock of Jack's mother's side of the family, and malefactors within the Navy itself, were known to engage in the abominable practice of sodomy. Therefore, Howe had purchased a whore from a respected London establishment, sent her to his son's bedroom, and locked them in until she should complete the task of ensuring that he too was not deranged.

Jack had been, like any fifteen-year-old boy, slightly stunned by the proximity of a naked woman, but he was terrified, confused, and unwilling. The whore – Eliza, her name had been Eliza, likely after the noted authoress of amatory fiction, Eliza Haywood – had tried her best to coax and flatter him, but he remained firmly in the corner. Finally, she decided that whatever Howe was paying her, it wasn't worth doing this to a boy, and taken him to the bed, whispered in his ear what noises to make, and jounced the mattress and moaned a bit to make it sound as if the deed had been done. He had been so desperately, ferociously grateful to her, as that was the first time in his entire life to date that anyone had been kind to him. He barely knew how to get his mind around the word.

That seemed to convince Howe that the question of Jack's moral decency had been established for the time, and for the next year or two, he was marginally less horrible than before. Jack was nineteen, therefore, when Howe announced that it was time to find him a proper job, so he could start paying back some of the money that they had spent over the years, to feed, clothe, and shelter him. Jack had been given a rudimentary education, allowed to attend the neighborhood Church of England school and learn his letters, catechism, and ciphering, but the future in mind for him was far more military. Howe had just offered his daughter Laura to the son of one of his Navy colleagues, Captain Benjamin Goode, and Captain Goode had in turn promised to find some discreet and far-away occupation for Laura's illegitimate half-brother. Soldiering in Muscovy or Prussia, perhaps, or even further afield. The clear implication was that either Jack would come home with sense finally beaten into him, or he wouldn't come back at all, and no blood on Howe's hands in doing it.

That meeting, therefore, was where Jack and Charlotte Goode first laid eyes on each other. Charlotte, Captain Goode's spirited daughter, was likewise the second person who had been kind to him, who had wanted to talk to him, and they hid in the garden while the familial dickering was going on. She had been the one who told him that her brother could not marry Laura, that he had a secret wife and infant child whom he had kept hidden because of their color, and the shame it would inflict upon him if found out. In time, Charlotte had also confessed that her father wanted her to marry some rich old earl, and she refused to do it. She and a French girl, Alix Saint-Clair, who lived down the street with her governess in order to be "finished" and presented in London society, had formed a secret Sapphic attachment, and intended to be together.

After that, well. It had quickly acquired its own momentum, faster and faster, as both of them began to envision some wild plan to set them free, a future where they neither had to serve in the Prussian army or in the bed of a doddering old man, where they could escape London and set out for the Americas – anywhere would have done, really, as long as it was away. But just as they were about to put it into practice, calamity struck. Charlotte and Alix's liaison was discovered, Alix was sent home to France in disgrace, and Charlotte was shut up as a virtual prisoner while her father scrambled to do damage control with the earl – assuring him it was just a silly thing between girls, not unknown, altogether possible to ignore. At the same time, however, it came to light that Benjamin Goode junior was secretly married to a West Indian woman and had produced a colored daughter, and thus was not eligible for matrimony to Laura Howe at all. As such, there was no further chance of Captain Goode senior finding a place in the army abroad for Jack, and that meant he would have to go back. Back to the house, back to Howe, back to Mrs. Howe, and with no certain possibility of ever escaping again.

So, then. He had managed to sneak into Charlotte's room one night, climbed a drainpipe and slithered in the window, and found her frantic and distraught about imminently being forced to marry the earl within the fortnight. Rather impulsively, he had suggested that he marry her instead, and they run away. They would rescue Alix, and go somewhere nobody knew them. She just had to trust him on this. She just had to trust him.

Charlotte had searched his face, clutching his hands.  _How would we pay for it?_ she had asked.  _Neither of us have any money. How would we pay for passage, or – or anything?_

And he had known, then, there was only one thing he was able to do that would earn them enough, in such a short time. They had, after all, less than a fortnight.  _Go to sleep,_ he had said.  _Leave that to me._

Jack had not ever felt the need to try for physical intimacy with anyone after the Eliza episode, and he still did not. But he knew there were houses in London – Mother Clap's being the most notorious, though that had been raided over ten years ago by the Society for the Reformation of Manners – where gentlemen who preferred gentlemen could cater to their particular tastes, underground and in secret. The White Swan on Vere Street was another, and that, so far as he knew, was still in operation. Mollyhouses, where a gentleman of a certain persuasion, and with money to spend, could indulge in everything he wished. Jack was a tall and handsome young man, and if this was what Howe had hated the most, feared even the possibility, then there was no better way to throw it in his teeth. He went straight to the White Swan from the Goode residence that night, and worked the next week.

As he had counted on, the money was excellent, and it was merely the law of human anatomy that when certain parts were rubbed on other parts, it produced a pleasurable sensation. It could have been worse. Only freedom mattered. He was completely past caring, did whatever the gentlemen wished, and since he had gotten so good at locking himself up in his head, it did not even bother him. He finished the week, returned with money and then some for their passage, and Charlotte managed to convince her brother and his wife to help sneak them out, to the parish church in Marylebone where they were quickly married. They returned, revealed the marriage to Charlotte's parents, and booked on the  _Persephone,_ sailing for Philadelphia. Only at the last minute, Benjamin Goode junior and his wife felt ill one night, were raging with typhoid the next, and were dead by the evening bells on Saturday. Charlotte's orphaned niece, Cecilia, could not be left behind at the mercy of these people, and so they scooped her up and ran.

After that – well. Compared to the nightmare they left behind, it was almost easy. The world was dazzling and dangerous and new, and Jack and Charlotte whirled with plans for it – to save Alix, to make their new home, to do everything and then some. They had agreed to try to consummate the marriage, since it could be annulled or discarded if not, but had not quite been able to go through with it. Charlotte was not particularly inclined to men in a carnal sense, and Jack – well, he had no bloody idea about anything, sex was merely the tool and useful necessity by which he had purchased their freedom. He was certainly not going to force her, and they were both confident in their ability to lie if the issue should ever arise. They did discover, however, that they liked to sleep together in the simplest sense of the word, to have someone there when they awoke, to hold hands and keep company. They loved each other fiercely, even if that did not manifest itself in intercourse, and their loyalty to each other remained paramount. When they reached Philadelphia, and Jack decided to head south and join the Spanish, he still returned every few months, bringing money back. That was it, then. Charlotte, Cecilia, and Alix, the women he needed to put first. His own revenge was far from incidental, and he would do a great deal for it, but if this was real. . . if they could finally,  _finally_ do what they had been trying all this damn time to accomplish. . . if it could be over. . .

Jack closed his eyes, dozing restlessly. Sam's face kept floating in front of him. No matter how much he kept telling himself that it would be more than acceptable for him to cut and run, exactly as Billy suggested, something was still holding him back. Some parts of Sam reminded him hauntingly of who he might have been, if he ever had the chance, and the other parts. . . well. He genuinely had no bloody idea if he had kissed Sam because it was useful, or because he wanted to. He had no way to tell. To be sure, it had been useful at least a few times, to save the boy's idiot arse, but that time in the berth. . . there had been no use for that, unless you counted breaking the tension before they broke each other's noses. He cared about Jones somehow, he had to admit that much at least, and he didn't want him hurt. The rest was a blur.

Jack lay there for a while, staring at the low ceiling and listening to the ship creak, wondering if perhaps he could sneak up later. But then Sam would probably want to talk, and talk some more, and the fact of the devil's bargain Billy had offered him might come up, and Jack couldn't possibly think how to circumvent that. His insides writhed at the thought of selling out Sam for his own ends, especially after Nathaniel. Yet even as he struggled, he kept coming back to that memory of Mrs. Howe blaming a three-year-old lad for his mother's "cozening" of her rapist, and what Billy had said.  _You're Sam Bellamy's nephew. Trust me, it matters._

Still more restless, Jack sat up again, almost tempted to pace despite the cursedly low ceiling. He existed because his uncle had been a pirate, because Jonathan Howe had come to the Bellamy family farm in Devonshire to investigate Black Sam's crimes and felt entitled to help himself to the womenfolk while he was at it. Would there perhaps not be some justice, however twisted, for his mother, if he did this? Jack did not remember her, because he had been too small when he was taken away. But in 1735 – that same year Howe had decided to make him a soldier, when he was nineteen – a solicitor's notice had arrived at the household that Jane Bellamy was dead, and had willed her small pittance of worldly goods to her son Jack, the only heir of her body. She had wanted to see him, evidently, while she was ill, but of course her letters had been prevented from reaching him. And Jack had never seen a penny of that money, pitiful as the amount might have been. His stepmother had made sure of that.

An utter, almost transcendent rage gripped Jack as he sat there, breathing short and fast through his mouth. Perhaps there  _was_ no more fitting turn of fate than that he end Flint, the infamous pirate king, who had colluded with his uncle and wrought this upon all of them, upon his mother, upon him. Sam seemed fond of his grandfather, and doubtless it would be a shock, but. . . to the rest of the world, Howe had presented a respectable face, been admired and esteemed. Appearances were rarely truth, and Flint changed his like the face of the sea itself. All this time, and he'd lived happily. Perhaps Billy was not so far off the mark as all that.

The hours dwindled past in unformed darkness. At some point the hatch banged, a parcel of food wrapped in cloth appeared, and Jack retrieved it, but took a bite and discovered he had no appetite. They were starting to ride heavier, pitching and laboring in the troughs, and Jack managed to crawl to a peephole and confirm his hypothesis that the weather was worsening. He hid under the sacks when a few crewmen came down to check for leaks, and lay still while they pumped the bilge and cursed, but he overheard one of them mentioning something about the boy likely wishing he'd been killed after all. So Sam was in fact alive, for now.

Once they had gone, Jack emerged, finished the meager supper, and despite the rocking and jouncing, managed to fall asleep. His dreams were strange and savage, and he was jolted from them, who knew how long later, by the sound of cannons.

Jack sat bolt upright, heart hammering against his ribs, as the boom from the gun deck above came again, and again, matched by the distant sound of returned fire from their unseen opponent. No, he wasn't imagining it, they had definitely opened fire – against who? They were struggling hard enough in the rolling waves that the going must be getting still rougher, and a sheet of white spray blasted his face when he tried to check the peephole again. Well then, no chance of getting off the ship, no matter who they were shooting at. Between gunfire and gales, it was bloody suicide. Besides, that assumed their opponent was –

Jack only heard a faint whistle, and an oddly muffled crunch. The next moment, the hull behind him had disappeared, and he was engulfed in a howling, seething rush of whitewater, with absolutely no idea which way was up. He was pummeled every which way like a rag doll, banged against something solid, had a moment of terror that he was about to be sucked under the keel, and clawed and kicked with all his might, lungs screaming for air. Iron-grey waves crashed and broke to every side as he finally surfaced, rain pelting him as if he wasn't already fucking wet enough, and he looked up to see a ragged hole in the  _Titania's_ port-side hull, barely above the waterline. Whoever was firing at them, in this shit visibility, was apparently bloody good at their job. But if he couldn't get back – if he  _was_ planning to go back –

The  _Titania's_ starboard guns went off one more time, as if to warn their attacker against pursuit, but it was clear even to Jack that they were going to have to run for it, try to slip away in the fog, rather than make a stand with this kind of damage. His mouth was full of salt, eyes stinging against the pissing rain, and he swam toward a broken board, grabbing hold of it in the heaving swells that sent him rising up and skidding down like a child's twig boat on a river. The  _Titania_ was already well ahead of him – Jesus, Sam was still on board, Sam was still heading to Skeleton Island with the terrible twosome even if they didn't sink – Billy had promised to keep him safe and Jack didn't fucking trust him, but he'd already chosen himself not to go up there, not to reveal himself, to preserve the possibility of vengeance –

Jack kicked vainly, as if there was any chance whatsoever of fighting the raging ocean to get close enough, but it was far too late. If he drowned for this, it might be no more than he damn well deserved, and yet –

Some moments later, he saw a prow emerging from the lashing murk, one or two hundred yards away. Closer, and then closer, until it unfolded into a ship, and one that Jack, though he couldn't be entirely sure, was almost convinced he recognized. That there, the figurehead –

Oh,  _Jesus fucking Christ._

* * *

"There!" Killian yelled, pointing wildly at the small black head in the waves, appearing and disappearing among the blowing spray.  _"There!"_

The man beside him made ready to throw a rope with a small weight tied to the end, as the  _Griffin_ rode closer and closer. His arm went up, the rope uncurled in a tumbling arc, and hit the water not far from the man – it was just one man, caught up and swept down the face of the next wave with a violence that made everyone suck in a breath – and after a terrifyingly long moment, he resurfaced to grab it. "Heave!" Killian might only have one hand, but he didn't care, wrapping the bucking line around both arms as the sailors started to pull. "Bring him in, bring him in!"

They had to fight the current with all their strength, as it wanted to snatch the castaway directly past, but finally managed to get him flush against the side of the  _Griffin._ There was another crash and hiss as another wave nearly scoured him off, but somehow, he still managed to hang on. Then they were pulling,  _pulling,_ and he reached the rail, sodden absolutely to the skin, turned a graceless somersault onto the deck, and –

In that moment, Killian felt a bolt of lightning sear through him from head to toe, so strong that he briefly thought he had in fact been hit among the ongoing tumult. As the young man sat up, scraping his hair out of his eyes and staring around with a baleful expression, Killian couldn't breathe, couldn't understand, couldn't even look around for Emma or Flint or Miranda to see if they saw this impossible apparition as well, this phantom plucked from the raging sea. No – it wasn't – Sam had drowned during one terrible storm, and this man, rising from another –

All the air felt flattened from Killian's lungs. He still did not move or speak, thinking of Emma asking them yesterday if they were sure Sam's son was dead, that that could be who Jack was. Intellectually he knew what Charlotte had told him, that she had killed Jack's father, Jonathan Howe, before they left London, but somehow at that moment, it had all gotten lost. The resemblance was not exact, but it was bloody close. Tall, lean, sun-brown, rangy and strong, with a long black ponytail and the same sort of set to his head and shoulders. Jesus. Jesus  _Christ._

A stunned silence pervaded the entire deck, even the crashing of the waves and the keening of the wind seeming very far away, as everyone stared at the newcomer. Killian briefly thought he might do something stupid, like swooning dead away, and sucked deep breaths to forestall the possibility. The young man was glaring around at his rescuers with what appeared to be a distinct lack of gratitude, especially when Matthew was finally the first to gather his wits and wade into the breach. "Mr. . . Bellamy. We were certainly not expecting to see you aboard again."

A communal faint croaking noise, halfway between a gasp and a moan, was to be heard at the name "Bellamy," and Matthew, no bloody dullard, cocked an eyebrow in the way that meant he had picked up on it. However, that altered to a look of some betrayal when Charlotte pushed past him, ran across the slippery deck, and threw herself into the young man's arms.  _"Jack!"_

Jack Bell – Jack  _Bellamy,_ Jesus, Jesus,  _Jesus –_ hugged his wife tightly, but his dark gaze remained fixed over her shoulder on the rest of them. Still feeling as if he was moving through frozen mud, Killian looked around and saw what must be the same expression on his face mirrored on Emma and Flint's. Even Liam and Regina looked pole-axed. Then as they watched, Miranda – who had taken shelter on the foredeck for the club haul – emerged, crossed toward them, and laid eyes on Jack for the first time.

For a moment, her face went utterly blank, disbelieving. The next, it lit with a wild, unearthly, desperate joy. She stopped dead in her tracks, hand to her mouth.  _"Sam?"_

Jack looked up at her, confused and slightly irritated. "No," he said, speaking for the first time. Even his voice was close to his uncle's, if somewhat rougher and edged in a way that Sam senior's had rarely been with them. "Sam is – it's a long story. He's alive, at least. Later."

"I. . ." Miranda's expression altered just as swiftly, realizing her mistake, lips pressed dead white as she made herself nod. "Yes. Of course, I see. You. . . you would be. . . Jack?"

"Yes." Jack, taking no more notice of her, let go of Charlotte, but didn't step away from her. Killian could see the gears turning behind his eyes. "You must be Sam's family."

"We. . . yes." Killian could barely get the words out. "I'm – I'm Killian, I'm Sam's father. This is my wife Emma, his mother. My brother Liam, and sister-in-law, Regina. My in-laws, Emma's parents, James and Miranda. We've been traveling with your wife."

Jack took that in with cool, inscrutable consideration, even as Matthew looked further gypped at the confirmation that it was in fact "wife." (Killian could have told him otherwise, but was not, of course, planning to.) Then Jack said, "Well, I've been traveling with your son. He's on the  _Titania._ One of your shots took out a good chunk of the portside hull, and tipped me overboard. We had a bit of trouble with Lady Fiona earlier, she's completely fucking mad."

"I – yes, yes, she is." Liam cleared his throat. Since the rest of the family seemed still generally unable to form words, he was the one to ask, "My nephew, is he – "

"He's – " Jack paused. "Well, he's alive. Lady Fiona tried some of her witchcraft on him, but that was stopped. If we can catch up with them, I'm sure he'll be glad to see you. As I said, the  _Titania_ took some damage, it's possible we can. If  _he_  agrees." He threw a very cold look at Matthew. "Can't forget who I'm dealing with here, now can I?"

Matthew stared back just as coldly. "You are – for the moment – not in any position to require the resumption of hostilities, provided you can keep your temper. I am not entirely certain that you can, but am willing to permit you the chance. You have a very lovely wife, by the way."

Jack smiled, close-mouthed. "Oh, I know."

Charlotte's eyes flickered between them, as if judging the likelihood that she would have to tear them apart. She laid a hand on Jack's arm, light but restraining, and he shook his head, seeming to turn away, but not quite taking his eyes off the captain. The tension was almost painful. Then Charlotte smiled entreatingly at Matthew. "I trust you will permit me to take him below and get him dried off? I do apologize for the. . . small deception."

Matthew's jaw was clenched, but he succeeded in the most abbreviated nod known to mankind. "Yes. Of course, Miss Bell. . . but it would be Mrs. Bellamy, wouldn't it? You may."

Charlotte got a firmer grip on Jack's arm and started off with him, as the entire family took a convulsive step after her. She glanced at them with raised eyebrows, and they stopped, barely. As they moved off, Matthew called, "Mr. Jones? The younger."

Killian turned slowly. "Aye?"

"Would you consent to continue serving as lieutenant, for the moment?" For once, Matthew seemed slightly less coldly in command of himself. "Warwick and Johnstone are. . . are dead, after all, and if we are pursuing the ship with your son aboard, surely you wish to have some purview. I – I would be grateful for your assistance."

"I – " Killian paused, fighting for a gracious response – it was the first time Matthew had seemed to see them as more than treacherous pirates conspiring to thwart him at the first chance, though he did appear to have gotten on somewhat better with Emma. "Yes. You're right, we need to catch up with Sam. I'll stay on deck until dark."

Matthew looked as if he might want to say something else, but nodded curtly instead. Thus Killian was left in the completely surreal position of serving as de facto lieutenant of a Navy vessel, under the command of Woodes Rogers' son, attempting to catch up to the ship with his son aboard, while Sam Bellamy's –  _something –_ was below, and not go completely raving on the spot. He had fought alongside the men of HMS  _Windsor_ and HMS  _Halifax_ during the battle of Nassau, and been proud then to do it, but this was entirely something more.

Finally, as darkness was falling thick and fast and they seemed to float in an island of mist to every side, the  _Griffin's_ lanterns casting a ghostly, gauzy glow and the droplets visible in the air, Liam appeared and clapped a tentative hand to Killian's shoulder. "I know you want to go down," he said quietly. "Emma and the others just did. I'll take over."

"Thank you, brother." Killian looked at him gratefully. "Shout for us at once if you see anything."

"In this murk and mess?" Liam raised an eyebrow. "We'd be lucky to see the King of Spain himself on a full flotilla. But I will. Go."

Killian paused, then nodded, chest aching, and had to turn away from Liam without another word. He hoped his brother knew it wasn't due to ingratitude or anger, but simply overwhelming emotion, and he felt almost disconnected from his body as he carefully climbed down the ladder. He blundered along the gantry, then stumbled into his wife and in-laws standing frozen by the bulkhead, apparently unable to make themselves venture any further. There was a small utterance of complaint from Flint as Killian stepped on his foot, they turned around and caught sight of each other looking like school pupils trying to prepare for a difficult examination, and let out a gasping, unsteady breath, half a laugh and half a sob. "We – " Killian didn't know why he was whispering, but couldn't make himself stop. "We could at least. . . introduce ourselves."

Emma nodded, lips white, as her hand groped out for his, and he squeezed it hard. Flint and Miranda were both barely breathing, but somehow they all made it into the small quarters beyond, where Jack and Charlotte were sitting in one of the hammocks, talking in low voices. At the sight of their four unexpected guests, they stopped, and there was a very awkward pause. Then Emma managed some semblance of a friendly smile, lips still trembling. "Jack, I – we heard you – you helped Sam out, several times. S-saved his life. Th-thank you."

Jack flinched, almost imperceptibly. The low light carved out the sharp planes of his face, turned his eyes into black pits. "I wouldn't do that just yet. Not until you catch up to the  _Titania."_

"Aye, but we. . . without you, we wouldn't have that chance at all, and. . ." Emma edged forward, Killian keeping pace behind her. Her eyes were open and raw and imploring, the way that he was used to seeing her around her family, but very rarely among strangers. "I – I'm sorry, we've just met each other, but do you know. . . who we are? Apart from Sam's family?"

Jack took his time about answering that. "I suspect," he said at last, "this has something to do with my uncle, and his association with you. You would be Captain Hook – " he glanced at Killian – "and you, then, would be Captain Flint." His eyes lingered on the latter with slightly unsettling intensity. "You and Black Sam Bellamy were. . . cohorts once, long ago."

"Uncle?" Emma blurted out. "Is that who. . .?"

"Who did you think I was?" Jack slid off the hammock and got to his feet, as Charlotte did the same. "But yes. Sam Bellamy was my uncle. My mother, Jane, was the youngest of his four elder sisters. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Did you know?" Flint burst out, staring savagely at Charlotte. "Did you know this whole time, and just decide not to – "

"James." Miranda's lips were barely moving. "For God's  _sake."_

"Did I know what? That you would find Jack's mother's name a particularly vital or relevant piece of information, or that you felt entitled to it as a result?" Charlotte glared back at him, tucking herself protectively into Jack's side. "I wasn't aware you had anything to do with his long-dead uncle, much less that it was any concern of yours, so no, I wasn't rushing to spill his entire genealogy into your laps. The lot of you were pirates together, is that it?"

"Aye, that was. . . part of it." Killian gave Flint a sharp look, silently ordering him to get his temper under control; he'd already almost fucked them once by going after Warwick, and could not be allowed to mismanage this to boot. "Sam Bellamy was more than that, though. He was our. . . our very dear friend, our family, a man we loved beyond – well, almost beyond all reason, and the man Emma and I named our son after. Seeing you – you look very much like him, and it startled us. I – I apologize if we caused you any distress."

Once more, Jack did not respond at once. It must be as utterly bizarre and painful for the rest of them as it was for him, Killian thought, to see Sam's face looking back at them – Jack could not be more than a few years younger than his uncle, who had died at the age of twenty-eight – and yet so devoid of the warmth and humor and affection it had always shown. Jack's expression was cool and composed and inscrutable, walls-up and wary, scoping them out as carefully and unsympathetically as a man sent to scout the enemy's advance. His eyes flickered to Flint again. "Well," he said at last. "That explains a few things, yes. Your son is quite brave, I'll give him that, to the point of foolhardiness. And loyal, and kind, and good. He doesn't deserve everything that's happened to him – and which doubtless will happen more, before this is over. You've been looking for him this entire time, then?"

"Aye, as soon as we worked out where he had gone." Killian wished he knew what to say to convince this hauntingly familiar stranger of their good intentions, their determination, their love both for their son and for his namesake, how they would welcome Jack into the family on the instant if he only wanted to ask. But he could already sense a deep-grained damage, a bridled – but barely – temper, and a genuine danger that would lash back against any attempted too-close approach.  _God, what happened to this lad?_  What little Charlotte had told him of Jonathan Howe's treatment of his illegitimate son, and what Killian himself knew of the man's character, hinted at nothing good.  _Jesus, Sam, how did we fail your nephew? And we never had a chance._

Everyone continued to stare awkwardly at each other for another few moments. Charlotte slipped her hand into Jack's, as if to make it explicit where her ultimate loyalties lay, even as her gaze caught Killian's with a clear warning to keep his mouth shut, to not say a word about Howe's fate or anything else she had told him. He did not want to get on her bad side, nor indeed to toss more kindling on this whole nicely crackling inferno of a situation, but he had already come around to the conviction that Jack deserved the truth – about this, about everything. It was going to be bloody hard, bordering on impossible, for him to lie if by some fluke Jack should happen to ask him directly. Besides, Killian was still fighting off the seductive lure of vengeance after however many bloody years, had already made a right fool of himself with his bloodthirst to go after Gold, and could not see this echo of Sam go the same way. Could not. Could  _not._ His heart almost broke with it. _Sam, do you see this? Do you know him?_

Silence, of course, was the only answer. Only silence. As it had been all these days, these weeks, these months, these years without him. These minutes, these hours, trickling past and stacking up into inevitability, and in the darkness, not even a ghost remained to whisper.

* * *

Even long after the gunfire had fallen silent, as the  _Titania_  pitched and struggled and rode low onward into the night and storm – Sam wasn't expert enough to be sure, but it seemed as if they had taken some significant damage – he didn't feel like getting off his bed to bother to look, or shout for Billy, or try to find out anything at all. He remained exactly where he was, staring at the ceiling. His wounded arm was throbbing and the gash in his collarbone felt like a streak of fire, but even that was almost incidental. He didn't care, he just didn't  _care._ There was no point to bloody anything. First he'd gotten Nathaniel killed, and now Jack. He almost wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He had just been like this – numb – ever since he heard. Insisted that Billy was lying somehow, but Billy had just said that if Jack was alive and on the ship, he would have come back, and Sam couldn't argue with that. Billy  _had_ saved his life. Bully for that. To say the least, he had not expected it, but it almost didn't matter. He wished, only half exaggeratedly, that Billy had not bothered.

Sam lay there for what felt like forever, wanting to fold up and disappear. He had managed to wrap up his arm well enough, though it was still showing spots of fresh blood on the bandages, and hurt like buggeration to move.  _Maybe they can chop it off, I'll match Dad that way._ He had been noble, had rejected the kill-Gold-and-go-down-with-the-revenge-ship route, and it had gotten him. . . well, it had gotten him this. It had gotten him fucking this. He didn't care what happened now. Maybe they'd get to Skeleton Island and chuck him overboard, or try to ransom him, or complete the interrupted heart-eating, or whatever else Lady Fiona had in mind. Sam was of the opinion they should just get on with it.

Lost in a haze of misery and pain, he drifted and drowsed, too uncomfortable to stay under for long. One of these, however, must have deepened into actual sleep, because when he opened his eyes, the light was grey and the roaring of the wind had stopped. They seemed eerily, almost unnaturally calm after the sustained low-level uproar of the last few days, and Sam was aware, concurrently, of the fact that he was as thirsty as a desert and very badly needed to piss. He was tempted to stay where he was and continue with trying to die, but after a moment, groaned, swore, rolled painfully off the bunk, and did both. He raked the fingers of his good hand across his crusty eyes and tangled hair, supposing that at least no one was around to witness his descent into swamp-creature levels of horror.  _Aye. That's a bloody fucking bright side, is it?_

Having attended to urgent bodily needs, Sam got back onto his bunk and slept another few hours, until he was wakened by a rapping at the door. "Jones."

It was Billy, of course, the only person who came down here to his dungeon. Sam lifted his head an inch and grunted mumpishly, to confirm that he had heard it, but no more.

The door rattled again, then opened. Billy had a slightly odd look in his eye as he beckoned to him. "Hurry up."

"Hurry up?" Sam mumbled. "Why?"

"Come on." Billy ducked inside and levered him upright; Sam's legs felt like overcooked noodles, feet dragging pathetically on the floor. His entire body felt as if it had been put in a furnace and then thrown out into a blizzard, and he wondered if he was running a fever from whatever nasty infection might be starting in his arm. "And be quiet."

Sam, who had been about to protest, discovered he really did not have the energy for it, and let Billy half-carry him above deck, into a world white with fog, sweltering and sticky. The  _Titania_ was at anchor in glassy water, and through a break in the swirling white, Sam could just glimpse the rocky high point of something that meant land. Billy hauled him to the ship's boat, put him in, climbed in after him, and started to lower it, with furtive, quick motions that seemed to hint he would rather not be observed. Dimly, Sam supposed that the fact that they were sneaking out the back door, so to speak, and that neither Lady Fiona nor Gold were in evidence, meant that Billy had not run this plan by them first. In fact, now that Sam put two and two together, he appeared to be being taken as a hostage, so that Billy would have considerable leeway to dictate terms to – and threaten into retreat – anyone who tried to attack him. Sam thought about objecting to this plan, decided it took too much effort, and put his head back down again.

They hit the water with a soft splash, and Billy cut them free of the hoists, taking up the oars instead and starting to row. Sam cracked an eye and noticed that there were quite a lot of guns in the boat, so it was clear that either way, Billy was not intending to be taken alive. Go out in a blaze of glory, so on and so forth. Sam still could not understand, however, why now was the time to do it. "Where 'r we?" he muttered, squinting his eyes against the painful glow on the underside of the clouds. "What's goin' on?"

Billy jerked his head at the clearing ahead, the billowing clouds parting on a distant high mountain, a green jungle, and a passage of deep, silent water, leading into the heart of darkness. "Why," he said, with a very grim smile. "At fucking last. Skeleton Island."


	24. XXIV

The  _Rose_ and the  _Hispaniola_ sailed about a thousand yards apart, the former closely marking the course of the latter, thanks to the indefatigable efforts of the new helmsman they'd put on – some strapping County Kerry man named MacSweeney who, while Geneva was not one for stereotypes, very much did reek of grog, and was closely observed by Lieutenant Woodlawn as a result. Geneva in turn was closely observing him, as well as the fact that a thousand yards was under a mile, and thus the  _Hispaniola_ was theoretically in range of the  _Rose's_ guns. Not that she could even get as far as opening fire, not that she would ever do so with Thomas and Madi (and, she supposed, Silver) trapped aboard as Gideon Murray's prisoners, but it nonetheless remained a tempting option. If these fucking redcoats did not get off her fucking ship, and did not do it what the Italians called  _prontissimo,_ there was no way of telling what she might be capable of.

Whirling on her heel, she paced her five hundredth groove into the quarterdeck, squinting at the  _Hispaniola_ for any hint of her uncle – it was a stretch, but Jim had managed to signal them in the first place, so there might be the chance of a repeat. Not that they could set off anything that the rest of the bastards would not then see as well, but she had to think of something to save herself from complete gibbering insanity. Her ship,  _her_ ship, had been unlawfully appropriated first by a gaggle of mouth-breathing mutineers and now by a self-righteous Army lieutenant and a drunken Irishman, en route to Skeleton Island and whatever mischief Gideon had in store there, and they were forced to just… go along with it peaceably? Bloody hell,  _fuck_ that. If nothing else, there were a few important questions to be asked, and nobody else apparently about to do the asking. Geneva straightened her skirt, let a lock of hair fall becomingly in her face, and strolled toward Lieutenant Woodlawn. "So… what is Lord Murray's concern with the island, exactly?"

Woodlawn regarded her suspiciously. It was plain he had not forgotten her attempted duping of him earlier. "King's business, madam."

"Oh?" Geneva leaned on the rail. If nothing else, she could distract him from keeping MacSweeney under his eagle eye, and then perhaps someone could – she didn't know, hit MacSweeney over the head with a whiskey bottle (as this was surely something to which the gentleman had been subjected repeatedly in his life). "I was just rather curious. What exactly is a governor of the English Crown doing, sailing a ship with a name like  _Hispaniola?_ That's not very Protestant, you know. Sounds, dare I say it,  _Spanish."_

Woodlawn's jaw tightened. "I was not aware that the name of the governor's ship was remotely your concern, Miss Jones. If you have nothing of value to contribute to the operation of the vessel, then I suggest you go below and – "

"Actually." Geneva took a step, feeling as if she had had a few drops of liquid courage herself, or was simply past giving a shit about anything whatsoever. She raised a finger and prodded him hard in the chest. "Actually, I do. I have plenty of value to contribute to the operation of the vessel, because you know why, Jeremy? Because I'm the fucking captain.  _I'm_ the captain. And what did you pricks do? That's right, you stole it out from under my feet, expected me to be grateful, and called the  _other_ lot lawbreakers. You know what it is when you seize a ship without a warrant,  _Jeremy?_  Piracy. It's piracy. I'm guessing you don't happen to have any letters of marque, so you're not a privateer. Straight up pirate. Gideon bloody Murray or otherwise."

Woodlawn looked aghast that anyone would dare to address him without proper deference, especially a young woman in damask skirts. "I don't know where you've taken your notion of protocol, Miss Jones, but given as you and your compatriots are already on  _very_ thin ice – "

"Oh, shut the  _fuck_ up." Geneva was so much enjoying finally tearing into someone who deserved it that she was prepared to push her luck, even knowing it was a bad idea. "I could give less than a well-formed shit about you  _or_ Lord Gideon's opinion of me or my uncle or any of us. If you think I'm going to stand here and meekly listen to your pompous gasbagging like whatever docile little mouse you – "

With that, she took another step, and must have looked genuinely alarming, because Woodlawn actually backed up. However, before she could pursue any one of a variety of follow-up maneuvers, someone caught her around the waist from behind. "Geneva. Hey."

Geneva stamped down hard, but Jim was prepared for that, snatching his boot out of the way. "Hey," he said again in her ear, low and urgently. "It can wait, eh? It can wait."

"Let go of me, you interfering – " Geneva made another abortive bid for freedom, which he likewise restrained. "Jim Hawkins, do you hear me, right this very – "

Jim didn't answer, but Woodlawn raised a judgmental eyebrow at them and strode off to correct MacSweeney from any imminent calamities. When he was gone, Jim accordingly let go, and Geneva spun on him in a fury. "How dare you act like I'm some – some beast that needs muzzling, in front of him, and everything they're trying to – "

Jim held up both hands. "Easy.  _Easy._ Believe me, I am not protecting that arsehole, but I don't want to see you getting hurt. Besides, you should shout at me, I'm the one who got us into this. If you did want to blame me for it – "

"I… no." Geneva laughed, without any mirth. "By the sound of things, Murray would have caught up to us one way or the other. And as I already said, you saved us by setting off that flare. It's not your fault the other ship happened to contain this current gang of wastrels. But I swear, one more sneering look from Woodlawn, and I will cave in his bloody teeth so hard that he'll bite himself when he shits for a week. We can't just sit back and – "

"Easy," Jim said again, grabbing her hands as she appeared set to tear her own hair out in frustration. "Start by taking a breath. Now, if you can think of a way to punch Woodlawn in the face without Lord Murray retaliating it or worse on your uncle and the others, I'm all ears. But they split us up for a reason, you know that. Divide and conquer."

"Yes, I know," Geneva said, but without quite as much heat as before. "So what? Just sit back and do nothing until we get to Skeleton Island, and hope they're distracted enough by the prospect of the treasure to make a break for it?"

"Maybe," Jim said. "But I agree that's not much of a plan, and that if we let them get us that far, it's too easy to make sure we never come back. Besides, I… don't think Mrs. Rogers is doing that well. I've been in the cabin to check on her, and she…" He hesitated. "We might just be able to save our own necks if it came to that, but for bloody sure, not hers."

Despite her own lingering rancor over Eleanor, and the effort it had cost to keep her alive this far, Geneva was touched at the thought that Jim instinctively viewed an injured woman as someone to be protected and looked out for, not conveniently cut loose at the first opportunity. She looked down at her hands, which Jim had forgotten to let go of, and they both coughed and pulled back. There was a brief pause, and then she said quietly, "So what do you suggest?"

"Still working on it." Jim smiled wryly. "We should wait for dark, at least. Any trouble will be more difficult to spot from the  _Hispaniola_ that way – if we  _are_ out-mutineering the ones who killed the last mutiny, we want to keep it contained to the  _Rose._ There's what, Woodlawn, half a dozen redcoats, and MacSweeney? That's not much, but it's still more than you and I alone are liable to handle easily. Your remaining men might help, but given what else has gone on aboard this ship recently, we can't count on them assaulting king's officers on our behalf."

"And what?" Geneva tilted her chin back to look up at him. "You  _are_ willing to assault king's officers on my behalf?"

Jim coughed, cheeks going slightly red. "Well," he said after a moment. "If I ever make it back to Bristol, they can just add it to the list. I doubt anyone would be that surprised. And since our odds are bad enough as it is, you shouldn't have to go it  _completely_ single-handed."

Geneva shot a wary glance at Woodlawn, in case he had crept up unawares and was listening to this, but he was still engaged in a dispute of some sort with MacSweeney, who – like every Irishman in the history of the world – was not particularly overawed by a bag-of-dicks Englishman telling him what to do. The faintest glimmer of a possibility occurred to her, but would have to wait until sundown. Instead she turned back to Jim, wishing for any number of reasons that they did not have so much nonsense to deal with. "Stay close."

He paused, then nodded, giving her another one of those looks that twisted her insides. Without another word, he strode past and vanished below.

Geneva whiled away the hours until dark in an anxious haze. Finally, with Jim's warnings from earlier in mind, she went to look in on Eleanor. She was drowsing and fitful, flushed with fever, and when Geneva gingerly unwrapped the bandages to look at the wound, she could see the edges of black necrosis that made her wince. Unless they got her to a proper physician and fast, someone who could cut out the corruption and hopefully forestall it from spreading, Eleanor was doomed to the sort of slow, suffering death from gangrene that Geneva would not wish on her worst enemy. Most men, faced with that prospect, elected to eat the business end of a pistol first, or otherwise have some help in hastening their demise. Official church teaching still disapproved of suicide, but soldiers had carried  _misericordias_ on battlefields for as long as there had been wars, and if the end was already coming, saw no sin in it. If such a choice came, their fellows were the ones whose counsel they sought, not that of a perfumed, hand-wringing priest.

Eleanor saw the expression on Geneva's face. "It's…" She stopped. "It's bad, isn't it."

"Well, it's not looking quite as I hoped." Geneva tried to keep her tone light. "I suppose that doesn't speak well of my amateur skills as a surgeon. I – I'm sorry, I – "

"You stopped me from dying the first night." Eleanor's voice was quiet. "That's more than – more than most people would have done. And more, I imagine, than I could have deservedly expected from you. Did I – earlier, under the opium. I think I remember you coming in, there were others, I'm not sure. Did I say anything? Anything… wrong?"

Geneva hesitated, then shook her head. "No, it was just a poppy haze, Woodlawn paid no attention to it. What they discovered about us didn't have to do with you."

Eleanor tried to absorb this with her usual curt, dispassionate expression, but her lips trembled. Abruptly, almost impulsively, pleadingly, she said, "I don't want to die. I don't want to make any more trouble for you. I just…" She trailed off. "I just wanted to see my son."

Geneva felt an odd, heartbreaking stab of empathy despite herself, as that was all most of them had ever wanted: to find their families again, whatever shape or form that took, whatever painful memories or bad old habits came between them, however deep their own flaws and their own mistakes. Unwillingly, her thoughts strayed to Silver, captive aboard the  _Hispaniola_ and faced with the prospect of leading Gideon and the redcoats straight to Skeleton Island, and the threat of losing everyone he had ever loved, the reason he had embarked upon this desperate, backward crusade to save them – from Billy, from Lady Fiona, from Gold, and from him. Counting himself as much as the others among their enemies, and never saying a word. How much must that corrode a man over time, twist and distort him, and lead him to places no one else thought to go?

After a pause, Geneva managed a smile and tidied the bandages back into place. As she did, however, Eleanor caught her wrist; her fingers felt hot and papery. "There were two men in here earlier," she whispered. "They were looking for valuables you hadn't offered up, anything else they could find. They thought I was unconscious, they didn't pay me any mind. They were talking about something to do with white roses, I heard them. Someone they were passing money to, and something about a ship called the  _Saint Peter."_

Geneva's stomach lurched. "Are you sure they – are you sure they were real? And not another opium vision?"

"They were real, I swear. They were looking through the chest." Eleanor used her chin to indicate Geneva's sea trunk, which did indeed appear to be rifled through. "They were going to take whatever money they found. I'm not lying, I'm not making them up. I'm not."

"All right. All right, I believe you." Geneva added that to the strange or slightly off or somehow contradictory bits of information when it came to Lord Gideon Murray: his determination to intercept them well offshore, the name of his ship, the presence of several Irishmen – not just MacSweeney but at least two of the other redcoats had fairly noticeable brogues – Woodlawn's evasion of her questions, and now this. She wasn't  _certain,_  but the outlines of a distinct suspicion had begun to crystallize in her head, and she straightened up. "Thank you."

It was close to dusk by the time she emerged, the western sky in front of them painted in great swathes and splashes of gold and rose and umber, like an artist had upset his palette of oils on a vast canvas. The sea was deep violet and the shadowed shape of the  _Hispaniola,_ still ahead of them, looked as if it had been cut from tracing paper. It wasn't dark altogether, but it would be hard for any lookouts on the other ship to get a full sight of whatever they might be up to, and a little light to maneuver by was not a bad thing. Geneva caught sight of Jim, who was loitering with apparent casualness across the way, and they shared a moment of unspoken consideration, wagering if this damned-fool plan had any chance of success whatsoever. She still didn't know, in fact, but she strolled up to Woodlawn. "So," she said airily. "Were you planning to let on just  _which_ king you're working for, exactly?"

Woodlawn grimaced deeply, as if hoping that if he closed his eyes and wished hard, she would be gone when he reopened them. "I have no interest in further palaver with you, Miss Jones."

"Captain," Geneva repeated. "It's Captain Jones, I told you earlier. Try to keep up. And wouldn't you know, I think I'm putting a few things together. A ship called  _Hispaniola,_ and another ship called  _Saint Peter,_ something to do with white roses and smuggled treasure, and good old Gideon making sure he got to us well out of sight or custody of any port. The rum bloody lot of you are Jacobites, you're gathering money for James Stuart in Italy, and that means, by my lights, you're just as much traitors as we are. Actually, more."

Woodlawn looked at her with such genuine shock that even she didn't think he was that good of an actor. Perhaps Gideon Murray had seen no need to burden  _all_ his underlings with the delicate knowledge of his political sensibilities – why would he, when one inopportune loyalist could inform on them and blow it all to hell? Just a few informed associates, who could ensure everything went to plan and the ship stayed on course. Informed associates such as the Irishmen, as King James II the elder, after his deposition by William and Mary in 1688, had fled to the friendly Catholic haven of Ireland, from whence he intended to muster support for his return to the throne. He had been comprehensively defeated in the Battle of the Boyne in 1690, where his speedy exit from the field earned him the deeply unflattering nickname of  _Seamus a chac,_ or 'James the shit,' but if so, it might not be only national intransigence that was making MacSweeney so disdainful of Woodlawn's orders. If Woodlawn still thought they were serving the proper king, George II, and MacSweeney happened to know otherwise –

"You…" Woodlawn recovered at last, as Geneva saw Jim take another step closer. "How  _dare_ you level such serious accusations to Lord Murray and to myself, and – "

"If I'm wrong, tell me how." Geneva put her hands on her hips. "Or maybe you're just too thick to see the evidence in front of your face, and just thought this was all proper protocol for the English government. Where did  _you_ take your notion of it, by the way, since you asked me earlier? Otherwise, youhave some fast talking to do. Well? This must be fascinating."

By the way Woodlawn's eyes were bulging, she was of the interested opinion that he in fact did not know, and was now realizing that he was stuck aboard a ship with traitors to every side – even his own men, the redcoats Gideon had picked to stay on the  _Rose,_ must be in on it, and thus he could not be sure of commanding their loyalty. He fumbled for his army saber, as if thinking of drawing it on her. "Stay away from me. I will get to the bottom of who has been spreading such outrageous tales, and ensure that they are immediately – we are  _not_ Jacobites, and if I hear you repeat that accusation again –"

At that, MacSweeney, who had been listening to this with a progressively more exasperated expression, looped a knot over the wheel to hold it, stepped away, and regarded his whey-faced commanding officer appraisingly. While he certainly whiffed of spirits, he was also over six feet tall, hard muscles corded in his arms from a life spent wrestling large ships, and was nearly as head-to-toe ginger as Geneva's grandfather must have been in his youth, giving him the look of a human-sized leprechaun. "Ah, ya daft cunt," he said, drew back a fist, and decked Woodlawn without the further bat of an eyelash. "Of course we're feckin' Jacobites."

Geneva had to jump backward as Woodlawn, looking extremely betrayed, hit the deck at her feet, completely – if momentarily – out cold. MacSweeney cracked his knuckles menacingly, saw her alarmed expression, and nodded in a friendly way instead. "I hate that feckin' bastard," he said conversationally, nudging Woodlawn with a steel-toed boot. "Been waitin' a long time to do that. You're right clever, little lady, fair play to ya."

"I…" Whatever exactly she had expected to happen after that revelation, this was not it. "What… do you want, exactly?"

"Me?" MacSweeney cocked his head. "Me n' the other lads are for King James, as ya said, and this one didn't have a feckin' clue. It happens, though, we're not that fond of Lord Gideon. You think you and your man could get the useful one off the  _Hispaniola,_ one who knows the bearings to Skeleton Island _?_ Leave Gideon to sail in bloody circles, and get the treasure ourselves?"

"He's not – " Geneva knew there were far more important things to focus on, but still. "He's – Jim's not my man, he's just – "

MacSweeney raised an eyebrow, but shrugged. "Nay mind, then. Any rate. I bring the  _Rose_ alongside the  _Hispaniola_ , one of you could swing across and grab 'im. He'll be on deck with the helmsman, shouldn't be hard. Silver, eh? That's the one."

"I – yes, I want to rescue him, but his wife and my uncle are also on board. We can't leave them behind, Gideon would kill them. Especially if he realizes that you're trying to stop him from getting to Skeleton Island, we – "

"Who cares about 'em?" MacSweeney shrugged again. "Not when there's money in the offing, for all of us. Make up your mind, lassie, this feckin' daftie will be coming round any second."

Geneva grabbed a mooring pin and hit the groaning Woodlawn over the head with it, at which the groans immediately ceased. "There. Few more minutes."

MacSweeney whistled appreciatively. "You seein' any gentlemen presently, that one there not being yours?"

"Watch it, Shamrock," Jim said. "Are you going to help us rescue Mr. Silver or not?"

"Keep your shirt on, St. George, can't blame a fella for tryin'. My bargain, lass, aye or nay?"

Geneva hesitated fractionally. They didn't have any other real options, and this might be the only shot. "Fine. But I'll take us alongside. This is  _my_ ship."

MacSweeney tipped her a rakish salute. "I like hearin' ya give orders already. I'll look after this crotch lice here. Get us as close to the  _Hispaniola_ as ya can, the lads and I can manage."

"Get Thomas and Madi," Geneva said. If he found her bossing him around arousing, he was welcome to have all he cared for. "As well as Mr. Silver. Or there is no deal."

MacSweeney gave her a slightly slanted smile, grabbed Woodlawn by the boots, and dragged him out of sight of the lanterns, with no care whatsoever as to whether he should knock the lieutenant's head against something hard in the way. Geneva went to the wheel, unlooped the knot, and felt a fierce thrill at having it in her hands again, the way the  _Rose_ responded to her mistress' touch, skimming hard forward and beginning to close the distance on the  _Hispaniola_ ahead. She and Jim glanced at each other, scared and exhilarated, hearts in their throats, until she couldn't help but notice again the shimmering color his eyes took in this dark glow, not that that was anything more than an academic observation. Jesus, this was dangerous and stupid and they were trusting the drunken Irishman who had just clocked his superior officer, but still. Her heart was beating fast, and not only with terror. She felt wild and alive and half-drunk herself.

MacSweeney returned in a few more minutes, the other Irish redcoats at his back, as the men on the  _Hispaniola_ began to notice the  _Rose_ was cutting into their lead. "Hey!" someone yelled down from the other deck. "What's going on, we didn't signal you to catch up?"

"Spot of trouble," MacSweeney bellowed back. "Woodlawn ran amiss of one of the sailors. Contained it, but thought best we make a report."

The redcoat squinted suspiciously, but it seemed to be directed at the putative misdeeds of Geneva's crew rather than MacSweeney himself. "What can you expect from a bunch of mutineers? Hold on, I'll fetch Lord Gideon."

"Oh, and there's more." MacSweeney jerked a thumb at Geneva. "This one here, says she's the captain. What's his face, the one Lord Gideon has, it's not him."

The redcoat scowled, but after a moment, turned to do as requested. The  _Rose_ and the  _Hispaniola_ were now running almost side by side, no more than fifty feet apart – almost close enough to drive them together if the wind suddenly changed, and more than close enough for a point-blank barrage, if they could possibly get the guns loaded in time. Geneva's eyes flicked up to the deck, and caught sight of Silver, who was indeed stationed next to the helmsman. His gaze met hers, and she saw it take a visible effort of will for him not to react; he was unavoidably ignorant of the particulars, but a man as schooled in deception and misdirection as him knew at once that some kind of plot was afoot.  _Madi,_ she mouthed at him, not at all sure that he could see it, but determined to try.  _Madi and Thomas. Get them above. Get them above._

Her nerves were running raw by the time the redcoat reappeared, with Thomas in tow. It was the first time Geneva had seen him since he went over to negotiate with Gideon and then was prohibited from returning, and her heart did a somersault. Thomas did not appear to have been beaten, at least, and seemed somewhat baffled as to what was going on. Still no Madi, though. Perhaps Gideon had scented something suspicious about bringing  _all_ his hostages topside at once, but they couldn't leave her behind by herself. Not when –

"You," the redcoat said. "Barlow – or no, Hamilton, wasn't it? Hamilton. Are you the captain of the  _Rose?_ MacSweeney down there says you're not."

Thomas was to be observed performing the same frantic internal scramble as to what answer he should give. He seemed to decide, however, that cover was blown. "No."

"So you're likewise a liar, then."

"Lord Gideon is perfectly well aware of my true identity, so if you call that lying – "

Losing patience, the redcoat hauled off and hit Thomas across the face, hard enough to make him stagger, as Geneva and Silver uttered twin hisses of outrage. Silver jerked away from the helm and limped forward with an intent, savage look, as he reached down a hand to Thomas, who was wiping the blood off his lip. "That, sir," Silver said, "was a grave mistake."

"Get back to the wheel, cripple."

Silver smiled, showing his teeth. "Watch it."

"Lord Gideon? Lord Gideon!"

A pause, and then the cabin door opened. Gideon emerged, holding Madi firmly by the arm with one hand, and a gun in the other, which caused an indrawn breath to travel both decks. "I would hope," he called, raising his voice over the night wind and the brewing commotion alike, "that we were not so swiftly reneging on our arrangement, were we?" He pulled Madi in front of him, twisting the pistol into her temple. "Mr. Silver. Return immediately to your post, recall where you were supposed to guide us, or watch all of them suffer for your arrogance."

Silver looked like a caged animal. His gaze flickered between Madi, held at gunpoint, to Thomas, still on his knees, to Geneva and Jim back on the  _Rose,_ the two ships still closing, so that a well-thrown rock from one deck could easily land on the other. The entire world seemed to spin to a halt around him, devolve onto his shoulders, some singular dark point of unbearable mass. Then he said,  _"My_ arrogance, Lord Murray? Are you quite sure of that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well." Silver tilted his head at the  _Rose_. "It could be that my cripple's eyes are deceiving me, but I don't spot the doughty Lieutenant Woodlawn at his post. Now, it  _could_ be, as they said earlier, that he ran afoul of a sailor who conveniently brained him in the darkness below decks, or something of the sort. But that would indeed be a brave sailor, given what you interrupted the  _Rose_ in the process of undergoing, and the fact that you and your men then shot or bayoneted the lot of them. Frankly, the mutiny-after-the-mutiny theory doesn't quite make sense, and believe me, I am a veteran of several. Where exactly isLieutenant Woodlawn? Convalescing below with a compress on his head?"

Gideon's eyes flickered briefly, but he could not quite brush that off. "You, sailor," he demanded of MacSweeney. "Where  _is_ he?"

MacSweeney shrugged. "Feck if I know."

"I want to speak to him immediately, or – "

And at that, Silver bellowed, "NOW!"

All at once, everyone moved. Madi grabbed the gun by the muzzle, ripping it out of Gideon's hand, and Silver lunged for her and Thomas, as Geneva saw a blur fly off the  _Rose's_ deck toward them. It was Jim, adventuring boldly forth on a rope, and he swung over the  _Hispaniola's_ railing, straight toward the captives, where Silver shoved Madi into his arms. He himself remained covering Thomas as Jim got a better grip on Madi's waist and pushed off hard, soaring among the shrouds and back onto the  _Rose_  elegantly as a bird. They landed and rolled, just as Gideon's redcoats, unfortunately, recovered from the shock. As Jim prepared to make a second trip for Thomas, one of them pointed his musket upwards and shot out the rope, so that Jim remained suspended in midair for a long, elegant moment. Then it gave out, and he plunged.

" _Jim!"_ Geneva abandoned the wheel, hoping MacSweeney would grab it, and sprinted to the side, looking frantically into the dark water. There was a spreading splash where he had gone down, and she hadn't yet seen him surface. She could either snatch another rope while the ships were still close enough, and try to grab Thomas herself, or – she couldn't jump overboard in full skirts, it would weigh her down like a rock, where was he, where  _was he –_

At Gideon's bellowed command, his redcoats crowded to the rail of the  _Hispaniola_ and began to fire into the water, bullets peppering the ocean like hailstones. Clearly, even if Jim did come up, it would be into the teeth of an iron rain, and Geneva's panic closed her throat like a giant fist. The  _Rose_ was faster than the  _Hispaniola_ with the wind at her back, and they were starting to pull ahead. She couldn't see what was happening on the deck of the other ship, apart from the redcoats shooting – no, this whole mad plan, she'd known it was a risk, she –

Just then, there was another whooshing shadow overhead, a bang and thump, and the next second, still bruised and bleeding, a windswept Thomas Hamilton careened into sight and hit the deck. He nearly landed on top of Madi, who rolled away just in the nick of time, as Geneva felt her lungs almost explode with relief – but wait –

There was another splash, which she caught out of the corner of her eye, and she realized that someone else had dived in after Jim. She couldn't be sure who it was, and was still leaning almost far enough over to fall in herself, as the hammer of bullets momentarily stopped and then, two heads broke the surface. One was Jim's; he appeared to have been knocked unconscious by the fall, and his eyes were closed, head lolling. Geneva prepared to throw the rope down to him and his rescuer, who – wait –  _wait –_

_No –_

Israel Hands tightened his grip around Jim and began to kick toward the  _Hispaniola,_ teeth bared at Geneva in a leering smile. They likewise were throwing a rope down, prepared to reel in two such valuable replacement hostages, as Geneva screamed Jim's name at the top of her lungs, hoping impossibly to wake him up in time. No good; his head still slumped, even as she could not comprehend how,  _how,_ Hands had gotten free. Not unless –

Panicking, Geneva whirled on MacSweeney. "Did you – " she screamed. "When you took Woodlawn – did you take him to the brig, did you let that other one – "

"Always have a hand to spare for another brother in arms against the feckin' English." MacSweeney looked puzzled. "Said he was, so I put Woodlawn in and told him to – "

"No,  _no,_ you idiot,  _no!"_ Geneva felt as if she was about to throw up. Hands had hold of the  _Hispaniola's_ rope, and they were pulling him and Jim up the side. She looked madly around for a gun, but there was no way to shoot Hands without hitting Jim, and if he fell back into the water, still unconscious, he would drown. Silver couldn't grab a rope and run with one leg, and she caught a glimpse of him embroiled by redcoats, just as Hands and Jim somersaulted over the edge and into the middle of it. Geneva and Gideon locked eyes with each other from the decks of their respective vessels, and Geneva felt a wave of hatred so strong that it almost displaced her from her body. Yes, they had gotten Thomas and Madi back, but this –  _this –_

Gideon strode across the boards, grabbed Jim by the hair, and slapped him on both cheeks until he stirred groggily. Then Gideon stood up. "Are you planning to leave him behind,  _Captain_ Jones?" he shouted. "You may be willing to abandon Mr. Silver to his fate, but Mr. Hawkins – ?"

Geneva's knuckles went white on the railing. She couldn't breathe, was only cursorily aware of someone saying something behind her. Thomas, it might have been Thomas, she didn't know. She didn't care. "I'm going to kill you," she said. "I am  _going_ to kill you."

Gideon stared flatly back at her. "First you have to catch me."

" _Jenny."_ Only then did she belatedly become aware that it was indeed Thomas pulling on her arm. "I can try to make it back, we still have a few more moments before it's too far to – "

"No." Geneva shook her head. "No, you can't, you'd both die. We have to chase them. We have to bloody chase them the rest of the way, if that's what it takes. We get to Skeleton Island, and then we'll  _fucking_ settle this."

"He's the governor," Thomas said, wiping more blood from his fat lip. His eye was already starting to blacken as well, but he didn't appear to notice. "Still the Lord Governor of Charlestown, we can't kill him. We will get Jim and Silver back, but we – "

"I don't care!" They were now trapped, Geneva knew, in a game of extended cat-and-mouse, Gideon trying to get himself and the  _Hispaniola_ the rest of the way to Skeleton Island, having lost his original two hostages but knowing that this one would work just as well at ensuring the  _Rose_ followed them to the bitter end. "How can you be such a pacifist all the time, how can you still think that we can solve things by  _talking_ them out, why can't you – why can't you just admit that law or no law, we have to – "

"Why can't I be more like James?" Thomas' face was cast half in shadow by the deck lanterns, even as he fought to hold her by the shoulders, trying to steady her. "Is that what you meant?"

Geneva had indeed been going to say something like that, that she wanted her ferocious grandfather, the one for whom murder and havoc was always cheerily on the table, rather than her gentle, generally-opposed-to-violence, confoundedly  _reasonable_ great-uncle. She felt punched, breathless, knowing that it was a race to Skeleton Island and whatever confrontation now awaited, that it would take every drop of her skill and ingenuity to win it, and that there was no other choice than that she must. "Jim saved your life, you and Madi. So you're just going to hope that we can save his by what – reading poetry at Gideon? Is that it?"

"No." Thomas took this jab with equanimity, though his lips tightened. "Listen to me. I said we can't kill him, yes. What I mean is, we can't kill him in any way that would connect it to us."

At that, something cold and sharp and clear cut through Geneva's frenzied state, and she looked up at her uncle. "So… so we… when we get there, we…"

"Skeleton Island," Thomas Hamilton said, "is a very dangerous place. If it claimed such as Captain Flint, well. Any mere mortal venturing there should fear for their very salvation."

* * *

Nobody slept much that night, for reasons only incidental to the continued jouncing and sloshing of the  _Griffin_. Nobody even really tried. Even Flint and Miranda stayed with the rest of the family in their small spot by the bulkhead, which had certainly not gotten any more spacious with the addition of another full-grown man. However, nobody cared. Jack and Charlotte themselves had retired around the corner to Charlotte's hammock, gotten in together, and curled up like otters; no matter how unorthodox their relationship might be, it was clear that the Bells loved each other very much and were deeply relieved to be reunited. That left the rest of them with a thin curtain and a bit of wall – not much privacy, even if they kept their voices down, to try,  _remotely_ try, to wrap their heads around it.

"What happened to him?" Flint demanded. "Where has he been all this time? Who didn't tell us, who left us to just – who left  _him_ to just – "

"Mate, easy." Killian put his hand on the older man's shoulder, at which he felt the same faint, constant vibration that must be running through him, like a bell ( _ha_ ) struck and held, long past conscious hearing, from the moment they had seen Jack on the rain-lashed deck. "Charlotte told me about – well, some of it, but I don't think it's my place to tell you. Especially, to be frank, with what you just did. You're bloody lucky you weren't shot, never mind flogged. It's not going to do anyone any good, anyway."

"He said his mother was one of Sam's sisters." Trust Flint to be as tenacious as a dog with a bone. "So who's his father?"

"His father…" Killian shot a wary look at the curtain. Jack and Charlotte might be asleep, worn out from their adventures, or they could be awake, listening intently. "His father was in the Navy as well. It… wasn't pleasant."

Flint swore. "Of course it fucking wasn't. What has the Navy ever given anyone but woe and wrath and violence? So what, he – "

"Keep your voice down." Killian tightened his grip on Flint's shoulder. "We are  _on_ a Navy ship right now, as we have all and very unavoidably noticed. Liam's still above, acting as lieutenant on night watch so we don't have to. The  _last_ thing any of us can afford is another scene like today. Get Flint under control, back on his leash, or we're all doomed."

Flint breathed in fiercely through his nose, thought about contradicting this, and finally jerked his head in an exceedingly gruff nod. Then he glanced at Miranda, who had not yet spoken a word, remaining pale and drawn throughout the entire conversation. "Are you all right?"

"I'm…" Miranda seemed to be on the brink of saying  _fine,_ as she always did, putting aside her own pain to help him, to help the family. This time, however, she could not quite come up with the words. She simply shook her head, barely keeping her composure. "I have no idea."

Emma, on her other side, reached out to take Miranda's hand, and mother and daughter held tightly, trying to brace themselves. Regina, rather than sit as a fifth wheel on this particularly delicate family conversation, had gone to keep Liam company in the cold, blustery night, and the four of them – Emma, Killian, James, and Miranda, who had known Sam Bellamy the best and loved him the most, who still did, in fact, love him as if it had been yesterday – sat there in a thrall of silence. It seemed almost inappropriate for it to be funereal, because Jack was here, Jack was  _alive,_ it was not merely about the man they had lost. There was a certain desperate, hopeful joy, that perhaps they would be able to take him in and build the family with him that they should have had with Sam senior, that he could come home with them and stay as long as he wanted, with Charlotte or Cecilia or any others. He was not their second chance with Sam, but he  _was_ a chance, of a sort. If he wanted it. If he could understand. If anyone could.

When no one else moved to speak, Killian said, "I'll talk to Jack tomorrow. Sam – Sam helped me out of some very dark and terrible places, after I became Hook, and the least I can do is try the same for his nephew. Emma, love, do you think you'd be willing to help Liam? Matthew seems to like you, or at least trust you. He could likely induce his men to take orders from you."

Emma raised an eyebrow, as being a pirate captain was not the same as convincing a bunch of Navy sailors to listen to a woman, more than half of whom were already of the opinion that even one aboard was abominably bad luck to start with, and now had to contend with four. Still, it was true that she had unquestionably forged the best rapport with their grudging host, and Liam could not be left to work all hours by himself (though doubtless he would, and utter not a single complaint). "All right," she said. "I'll offer, at least. I just want to get to Sam,  _our_ Sam."

"We all do." Killian leaned over to kiss her hair. "Still the most important Sam to us, now or for the last twenty years. James, mate, you don't bloody fuck this up again. Hear me?"

Flint grunted. Finally, when Killian kept glaring at him, he said curtly, "Aye."

"Good." Killian could feel the exhaustion rasping at him, fine and constant as sandpaper, and reckoned that no matter (and certainly because of) the emotional and physical tempests they had been through, they could stand with some sleep. "Let's keep that in mind."

Council dismissed, Flint and Miranda went off to their berth, Emma and Killian got into the two hammocks they had managed to string up more or less as one, and she tucked herself against his chest. Killian lay there, comforted by her solidness and presence as always, reminded of how good it was after their separation and his abduction, his long journey home. He might have stayed awake to enjoy it, in fact, but he was too bloody tired. He fell asleep like a stone being dropped down a well, and did not even stir until the clamor of the morning bells.

The day had broken wet and grey but less in active upheaval, once more as if to reflect the uneasy truce patched into place aboard the  _Griffin._ Flint had been ordered not to display himself to or mingle with the crew, and if Mr. Sherwood did not recover from the ringing blow Miranda had dealt him with the boat hook, that animosity could extend to her as well. Thus the family ate breakfast below, all eyes fixed on the curtain, until it fluttered and Jack and Charlotte appeared. "Good morning," Charlotte said graciously. "I hope we've all – ah – recovered?"

Emma and Killian nodded, and even so did Flint, after a pause. Miranda had gone white again at the sight of Jack, the confirmation that it was not a dream, that this ghost of her lost love was standing so near before her. As Jack dipped up his bowl of porridge from the small kettle that had been left for them, she reached out an impulsive hand. "Come – come sit next to me."

Jack glanced over his shoulder at her, startled and wary. "No."

He had spoken quite shortly, and even though it was a small thing, Miranda's eyes filled with silent tears before she could stop them. She pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve and tried to brush them away, and Flint glared at Jack. "Kill you to sit next to a proper lady, would it? Or is it nobody's asked you politely before?"

"Was there a reason I was supposed to?" Jack sat on the sideboard instead, almost casual, but leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as if ready to spring up again in an instant. Killian, who had lived his life between the ages of eight and eighteen in this same way, always on the lookout for the next blow, the next attack, would have known Jack's childhood under Captain Howe exactly, even if Charlotte had not told him. "I don't have time for all your bloody unresolved issues over my uncle. When are we getting to Skeleton Island?"

"Real charmer, aren't you?" Flint said cuttingly. "Clearly your uncle  _did_ get all the tact in the family, so don't worry. We're not about to confuse you for him again."

"I never knew him, so you can be the judge of that." Jack's eyes, Killian noted, were overall brown, but rimmed in a hazel-gold like crystallized amber, giving him the look of a watchful and less than friendly great cat. Charlotte had unobtrusively put one hand on his arm, as if to restrain him from pouncing. "In fact, I'd rather we didn't talk about him at all. The only Sam I care about is your son, and when we're going to catch up to him. I assume one of you gave the bearings of the bloody place to Matthew fucking Rogers and his crew of imbeciles and miscreants?  _Well?"_

Killian blinked. "Yes," he said after a pause. "James gave the coordinates of Skeleton Island to Captain Rogers when we embarked. Theoretically, and as that's still where we think Lady Fiona and Billy are headed, that's where we're following them."

Something flickered in Jack's eyes at the mention of Billy, something that Killian didn't entirely like. However, it was gone the next instant, and Jack smiled, not at all warmly. "Good to know he's already made his useful contribution for the voyage, then. I was wondering."

There was a very awkward pause at that, as this first day of proto-familial relations did not appear to be off to a felicitous start. Then Charlotte, clearly casting about for a neutral topic, said, "Well, the weather's better today, isn't it? Hopefully we can catch up some time."

Everyone nodded politely and agreed that it was, yes, which got them through the next thirty seconds before the silence returned. Then Miranda put down her mostly-full bowl and excused herself. Killian thought he heard her muffle a sob as she disappeared around the corner, which was so alarming for his calm, resolute, steadfast, kind mother-in-law that he almost wanted to get up and go after her. They all loved Sam senior – indeed, Killian still had the sort of feelings for him that he would have if, God forbid, he ever lost Emma, a love that no time or space could ever take away – but Miranda Barlow and Sam Bellamy had been true soulmates, and lost it so soon and so cruelly, and she had been reminded of that at every turn throughout this whole adventure. Being stonewalled by Jack must be the last straw in even her unbreakable composure and strength, the pillars of Samson's temple breaking and crumbling.  _Or is she Atlas? Carried the world on her shoulders, like Liam, and never said a word._

Breakfast broke up very uncomfortably after that. Flint, still under orders to self-sequester, went after Miranda, which was probably (and hopefully) the place he could do the most good, and Emma started above to ask about relieving Liam. Before she did, however, she caught Killian's sleeve, a slight frown linking her brows. "I don't quite like the way Jack's looking at Flint."

"Oh?" Killian had noticed that animosity as well, of course, but put it down to Flint being a heel, as usual, and nobody ever liking him on first encounter. Still, he knew his wife had a deeper intuition about these things, and it reminded him of that beast he'd seen in Jack's face at the mention of Billy – who, after all, meant Flint no good whatsoever, and who must have spoken to Jack at some point during their time on the  _Titania_. "Your father, God love him, doesn't exactly make it easy for others to do the same. Are you sure it's not just that?"

"I don't know." Emma looked anxious. "I just… yesterday all of us were too stunned to think it through, but Jack's right. He's  _not_ his uncle, and we can't overlook everything we don't know about him just because he happens to be related to someone dear to us. Just… keep an eye on him, would you?"

"Aye. I was going to talk to him anyway." Killian looked down into her face and smoothed a tangled lock of grey-blonde hair out of her eyes. "Go get my stubborn brother off duty before he becomes encrusted to the deck, I'll mind Bellamy junior."

Emma paused, bit her lip, then nodded, still looking worried, as Killian leaned down to kiss her quickly before sending her on her way. Then he strode across the floor and caught up with Jack, offering him a friendly smile. "Scuse me. Come above, lad, and we can have a chat?"

Jack and Charlotte exchanged a look, but Charlotte let go her proprietary grip on her husband's hand, albeit with one more brief warning glance at Killian. "Yes, Jack. Go make some friends, why don't you? Be a good experience."

Jack looked somewhat betrayed as Charlotte headed off, as if he could have gone his entire life without ever trying such an ill-advised endeavor. He was several inches taller than Killian, as his uncle had been, and had to duck more than Killian as they made their way to the ladder. It was still windy when they climbed out onto the deck, but at least it was somewhat warmer, and by the looks of things, Emma had managed to convince Liam to go below to eat and sleep. The Jones brothers nodded at each other as they passed, and Killian felt slightly heartened for – well, whatever he was about to try, he still had no blooming idea. They found a spot on the forecastle out of the way of the crew, who were giving Jack dark looks – whatever other matters he and Flint might be experiencing friction on, it seemed that they shared a talent to aggravate the entirety of HMS  _Griffin,_ from the captain on down. Finally, Killian said, "I'd like to thank you for what you did for my son."

Jack shot him one of those startled sidelong glances that Killian again, with an ache, recognized as one of his own: the conviction that kindness always came with a catch. "Oh?"

"Aye. I don't know the full story, but I know you've stuck with him and protected him, without much to gain from it and at considerable risk to yourself, and I just wanted you to know that I see that, I admire it. It matters that you did that,  _you,_ beyond anything else that we might think about meeting you and your – your surname. So aye. Thank you."

Jack considered that, with neither an openly friendly nor openly hostile expression. Jesus, the boy had so many walls. It reminded Killian a bit of Emma, when they'd first met, but possibly even she had not been this closed off. He was also thinking of Nemo, how the man had spent so much time patiently talking sense into him aboard the  _Nautilus,_ and if any of that fatherly advice had stuck in the least degree, he likewise had to pass it on. He waited, trying not to jump into the silence. If Jack  _was_ going to open up at all, it would not come with pushing.

"You're welcome," Jack said at last, noncommittally. "I suppose. Nobody else was going to do it, and the feckless fool would have died half a dozen times if I didn't take a hand. So." He shrugged. "How close to Skeleton Island are we?"

"I don't know. The storm could have carried us ahead of schedule, or behind it. If it's true what you said, that the  _Titania_ was damaged, we could overtake her, but she'll be sailing hell for leather to avoid that possibility. I'd be surprised if we intercepted them before."

"Of course it's true what I said." Jack's tone bristled with the implication of challenge. "What, you think I'd just make up a bloody great hole in the side that blasted me into the sea?"

"No," Killian said, "not necessarily. But we… well, as you said, you're not your uncle. We don't know you, and we'd like to."

"Because I look like him?" Jack's eyes had turned more golden and feral than ever, in the weird silver light shimmering on the underside of the clouds. "Don't try to deceive me. That's all you see when you look at me, the lot of you. You see  _him."_

"I can't lie, you do look very much like him." Killian was conscious of the need to be exquisitely careful, as if one false step would blow this as sky-high as Flint's little disaster yesterday. He also knew that Jack was pushing back instinctively against anyone trying to get close, out of fear for what they might do if they did, especially against this family that could take even more from him if they cared to. Worry over Sam junior must also be part of it, no matter how hard Jack wanted to deny it; Killian, after all, likewise had some experience in this department. "It startled us, and if we took you aback by anything we did, we're sorry. Truly. Even Flint."

Jack's mouth twisted. He turned to look at the prow of the  _Griffin,_ still plunging dauntlessly through the waves. After a long pause, in a seemingly casual tone, he said, "So you still call him that? Flint. What sort of man is he? Has he ever let that war go?"

"None of us can really ever let something like that go. We've all tried, and we've all put the past in a locked trunk and tried to keep it there for many years. But you can't live through something like that, and not have it change you forever. And yet for all his flaws, Flint –  _James –_ has been a good husband to Miranda and Thomas, a good father to Emma, a good friend to me, and a loving grandfather to my children, ever since we all found each other again in 1724. He has that anger, he always does, it will never go away or leave him altogether. But he's fighting for us now, to build something and to protect it, and not merely to burn everything in his path. It may not seem to make such a difference to you, or admittedly to others who cross him. But it is. It does."

Jack took that in with the same inscrutable expression. "So," he said, after another pause. "You were Captain Hook."

"I was, aye. And still am, in ways I might not want, but cannot justly overlook or wish away."

That was the first thing Killian had said that made him think he might have gotten through to Jack in any capacity. Jack's look was still guarded, but longer and more curious, as if he had never heard a man admit honestly to wrongdoing and not contort himself to all angles to avoid it. "It can't have been that bad," he said abruptly. "If you can say that."

"It was bad," Killian said. "I had reasons, I had been betrayed and overthrown by Robert Gold, I had lost my hand and my belief in my brother and everything I thought I knew – but I went far beyond that. I sacked Antigua, burned the Navy ships there, and killed who knows how many sailors, and did the same on Jamaica. I killed men who had served under me for trifling offenses, and I killed men who were just in my way. I ill-dealt Ursula, the daughter of a Maroon chief, and I killed my oldest friend and the man who had been mine and Liam's mentor in the Navy, James Hawkins, our purser. I had reasons, as I said. I had  _reasons,_ in my mind, for everything. I cannot yet say if they were good or bad, for either way, they've led me here. But Captain Hook was a monster, and I am the last man who should say differently. I could not have been him forever, and lived, or had a future with Emma and our child, then children. And whether or not you want to hear this, your uncle helped me. Helped me see that, and sort out some way that I might be able to stop. I have never forgotten that, or him."

Jack looked down at the railing, gripped between his hands. "So you wanted to kill Gold," he said. "Robert Gold, the same one. Is that so?"

"Aye. I… still do, in a way. Especially since he's recently revived the business of threatening my family, including Sam. Would I be wrong?"

"No. He…" Jack hesitated. "His friend, Nathaniel Hunt. He was shot as he and Sam were trying to escape from Gold's house. Sam wants – wanted – wants to kill Gold for it."

"Nathaniel? That was the boy Matthew told us about, the one who had died in the woods?" Killian felt a pang of grief for his son's best friend, Sam's faithful shadow and sidekick from the age of six, the many days Nathaniel had passed at the Swan-Jones house and Sam's desperate crush on his sister Isabelle. "Jesus.  _Nathaniel._  Jesus Christ. Sam must be furious."

"He is," Jack said, very quietly. "Not just at Gold, and I can't blame him."

Killian didn't know what to say, grappling with the heartache, the almost unbearable thought that his son had also had something, someone precious to him taken away by Robert Gold, and fallen into the same black snare of vengeance as a result. He himself would kill Gold a hundred times, a thousand, rather than wanting Sam to do it, to come anywhere close to Hook, his sweet bold adventurous innocent lad, whose pure soul was so unspeakably more precious to Killian than his own worn and grimy one. "I'll remember that," he said at last, unsure what he meant by it, but he certainly would. "Christ. We need to find Sam soon. Was he hurt?"

"I…. he…" Jack seemed to weigh his words. "Lady Fiona was trying some mad alchemical ritual on him, so far as I heard. She knocked me out with some poison, I didn't see for myself. He was hurt a bit, I think, but Billy said he – "

At that, on the spot, he clammed up, as Killian felt a cold chill slither down his back. "I'm sorry, Billy said what? So you did speak to him? Billy Bones, aye? On the  _Titania."_

"Briefly." Jack glanced at the horizon. "I don't recall it amounted to much."

Killian did not have the same sense with liars as Emma, but he had certainly been around the block enough to recognize when someone was, if not fibbing outright, certainly withholding large amounts of the truth. "What did you and Billy say to each other?"

"I said. Not much. And even if otherwise – " Jack paused, then shrugged angrily. "None of your damn business, is it? We both want to get to Sam. Leave it at that."

Sensing that whatever fragile progress he had made might already be on the rocks, Killian reached out. "Hey. Jack. Jack, easy, all right? I believe you when you say that, I believe you. I just… Billy's a…. he's dangerous, and if you did remember anything that – "

"I said I don't." Jack sharply shrugged off his hand. "Thank you for the conversation, Mr. Jones. I think I'll be off now."

With that, he left the forecastle rather quickly, moving with long, sharp strides. He was the recipient of more dirty looks from the crew as he passed, which surely did nothing to improve his mood, and Killian stood there with a leaden sensation in his stomach, catching Emma's worried glance from where she had taken over to assist the helmsman. He smiled reassuringly, which was not altogether how he felt, and went down the steps, once more feeling as if there was a large and angry bear pulling at its chain, and about to, at any moment, potentially break free.

The day passed slowly, at least in terms of time. Matthew was still pushing his crew hard, and the  _Griffin_ was making the best speed Killian could imagine possible. Doubtless it was because they had confirmed information of Robert Gold's whereabouts as a prisoner, even if it did come from a man Matthew clearly hated (and vice versa), as well as a desire to get the pirate family off his ship before this turned into yet another disaster. Killian himself was not quite sure what he thought about the young captain, even as he admired his skill and determination. It was plain that the men did not fear Matthew Rogers merely because his father had been a governor and he had a famous surname; he had earned it on his own merits despite his tender age, and while Killian was aware that he and Flint could not justly censure other men for violence, Matthew had that same unflinchingly cold-blooded streak as his sire. Emma seemed to like him, or at least treat him with something of a soft spot, because she was a good-hearted person and a mother with children about Matthew's age and had had the best relationship with Eleanor Guthrie, but Killian didn't think he did. It wasn't just because of Woodes Rogers, either, the same way that it was more than Sam Bellamy when it came to Jack. Matthew lived in a world where he was praised for the breaking and beating of other men, could exercise that power without check or restraint, and even if violence was not his first choice, he was absolutely remorseless when decided upon it.  _If I was ever in danger of forgetting what the Navy really was, even if there were a few good men in it, I'm not any more._

It was close to nightfall when Matthew – shirtsleeves rolled up, cravat undone, and sweaty hair straggling out of its queue to stick to the back of his neck – beckoned to Killian, who had taken over for Emma about halfway through the afternoon. "Go get your father-in-law. I want him to double-check the bearings. We had to swing rather dangerously close to Cuba, but there's a northerly current that should have taken us through the Windward Passage at more than the usual speed. It can't be more than another few days to Skeleton Island."

Killian paused, then nodded once, moving off. It occurred to him, rather forebodingly, that the only reason Matthew had not in fact shot Flint earlier could be because they were flying blind without him, and he might have cleverly given not quite the precise coordinates, as it would be entirely in character for Flint to do. He knew full well what sort of reputation he had and still did have with the Navy, and would not have played his valuable hand without leaving a trump card in reserve up his sleeve, in case the mood should turn against him. Flint's evasiveness on the subject of Skeleton Island overall, and the shadow of what had befallen them – and him – last time, meant that he might do as Matthew asked, or he just as easily might not. And given that this ship was already enough of a tapped powder keg, well…

Killian located Flint (whom Emma had clearly been keeping a casual eye on), brought him up to the deck, and informed him in an undertone what Matthew had asked. Flint strode to the charts spread out by the helm, picked up the quill and did a brief calculation, and set it back down. Then, sensing Matthew watching him, he said only, "We're getting close, aye."

"Do you possibly mind elucidating  _how_ close, Mr. Flint?" Matthew's tone was more or less cordial, but danger lurked at the edges. "Do you think, for example, we should reach it tonight, or tomorrow?"

Flint grunted, rather purposefully unhelpfully. After a moment he said, "We're just west of the Turks. It should be straight north from here. If you sail hard all night and all day, you may have a chance of sighting it late tomorrow."

"Sail hard." Matthew glanced around at his exhausted crew. "And do you intend to help us in accomplishing that, or not?"

"What the fuck do you think I've been doing?"

"I imagine we would all prefer for me not to answer that question honestly, so I will refrain. You were useful during the battle and with the bearings, I will give you that. But – "

"You're the bloody taskmaster, aren't you? Since when do you care if your men are tired or not? Whip them some more, like mules. That always seems to work for the Navy, doesn't it?"

As this was on the verge of going downhill, Killian took a step. "Mate."

Flint and Matthew were still too busy staring at each other to pay any attention to him. After a moment, however, Matthew looked away, breaking the standoff. "Very well. Sailing hard it is. Lieutenant Jones, could you please arrange for the men to have proper rotations of work and sleep for the next twenty-four hours? It will be a labor of Hercules, but we cannot avoid that."

Hearing his old title spoken aloud, for what must be the first time since he'd abandoned it, gave Killian the strangest sense of unreality yet. Still, he nodded. "Aye, I can manage that."

Matthew nodded to him in return and departed, sandy-brown hair blowing in his face. Killian watched him go, then turned back to Flint. "Hey," he said quietly. "Be careful around Jack, all right? I don't know exactly what, but Emma and I both have a feeling that he has a particular bone to pick with you. He let slip that he spoke to Billy, on the  _Titania,_ and he wouldn't say what."

Flint looked back at him coolly. "Is this not the part where you note that most men have a particular bone to pick with me? Jack's perfectly bloody welcome to keep himself to himself, I couldn't care less. He looks like – like Sam, but that's as far as it goes."

Killian heard the pain in Flint's attempted flippancy, the hurt and the loss he still would not fully allow himself to feel, that it was easier to be dismissive rather than hope for anything and be disappointed. Knowing that Flint wanted his next question about as much as he wanted to dive headfirst into a thicket of brambles, especially after this, he nonetheless could not be sure that he would get another chance to ask it. "What happened on Skeleton Island? You don't need to tell me all the details, since I don't imagine you will. But I wasn't there last time, I've never been. It was you and Emma. Woodes Rogers pursued you there and killed Blackbeard, there was a battle, the  _Walrus_ was destroyed and the treasure lost, something happened with Silver, you were marooned there for about a year, and finally rescued by Nemo and taken to Philadelphia. I can understand not wanting to return to some godforsaken remote island where you were stranded in the wilderness for months, but I think it's more than that. Our entire family's safety is riding on this, James. You need to tell me anything that can help us save them."

Flint considered him for a long, fraught moment. "You seem to know the broad strokes," he said. "Is that not enough?"

"I don't know. You tell me. Do you think if we return there now, with the possibility of coming across Billy Bones  _and_ John Silver, there's nothing else that matters?"

Flint flinched, almost imperceptibly, and turned away, rubbing a hand over his ginger-white beard. "I died there," he said, when Killian thought he wasn't going to answer. "In all ways that mattered, all ways but one. And as Silver said, I did not go there caring who, if anyone, died with me. He and Emma were saved because he found a way to bring the  _Rose_ over to our side, one of his clever tricks, as ever. His escape hatch, his contingency plan, not mine. When I made my way off that island, when I went out to sea, I had no way of knowing if I'd be picked up by a ship or not, or if I wanted to return to the world even if I was. I was only Odysseus setting off to an Ithaca burned to the ground long ago, and doubting he had any strength to rebuild it."

"But you were," Killian said. "You did. Nemo found you, you made your way back to Miranda and Thomas, the great loves of your life, and in time, to us as well. You rebuilt everything from the ashes. Skeleton Island was not the end."

"No," Flint agreed, after another slight pause. "No, I suppose it was as much a beginning as an end, a birth as much as a death. But I cannot be comfortable with returning."

"I don't blame you for that, mate. It's never an easy thing to stare one's own mortality in the face like that. I even know why you've been pushing Matthew as hard as you have – because you recognize that small bit of Lieutenant McGraw in him, and you are determined that he learn, as you did, how wrong he is about the world. But keep… everything in mind, eh?"

Flint hesitated one more time, then nodded, as if not quite trusting himself to speak. He clapped Killian on the shoulder, with real and deep affection, and headed below.

It was another mostly sleepless night. Flint, Liam, Killian, and Emma all worked shifts with the crew, so it would not seem as if they were sitting pretty and expecting the  _Griffin_ to do all the backbreaking work for them, and even Jack was to be observed pulling tackles and climbing shrouds. A few times, some of the men thought they had spotted another ship, somewhere in the dark distant horizon behind them, but it was still foggy and uncertain, and no matter how much they searched with the spyglass, they couldn't pick out anything that wasn't just floating cloud. Nonetheless, this phantom sense of a pursuer goaded at their heels still harder, spurring them on to more speed. Killian was not sure he had ever been more tired in his fifty-three years of life, but they couldn't stop. Not when they were finally so close, so  _close._

Dawn broke still sullen, though with hot red streaks in the east like an infected wound. On Flint's terse instructions, they veered slightly in that direction, and sailed until almost midday, by which time almost the entire ship was on the point of collapse, rest shifts or no rest shifts. They simply had to slow down, allow the crew to sleep at longer intervals, and Killian found himself thinking more fondly of Matthew than he had done yet, as the captain efficiently divided the men into the few who could manage a shorthanded run and allowed the rest to go below. Then he leaned against the mainmast, eyes closed, looking as if he would very much like to slide down it in a heap, but not letting himself. No matter his true motives, it had been a yeoman's effort, and Killian awkwardly cleared his throat. "Hey. You should sleep too. I can look after her."

Matthew cracked one eye to regard him wryly, as just a week or so ago, it would have been quite unthinkable that he retire and leave his ship in the hands (or rather, hand) of a pirate. "And you can go so long without sleep yourself, Mr. Jones?"

"It's my son out there," Killian said. "And it might be my daughter as well. I think I'd likely discover that I could do anything."

Matthew tried to muffle a jaw-cracking yawn. "I daresay you would. You and the rest of your confounded family. Samuel is – is lucky. To have a father like you."

That caught Killian oddly in the heart, even (or perhaps especially) coming from the son of a man who had been their mortal enemy the last time they were coming this way, not their confused and uncertain ally. He almost wanted to come up with some good memory of Woodes Rogers, perhaps some conversation they had had at a supper party in Bristol, though in truth he couldn't remember if they had spoken personally at all, or what they would have said. Something mundane, no doubt, about taxes and port tariffs and shipping concerns, or wherever the  _Imperator_ was destined next.  _Lieutenant Jones' life, through a glass darkly._

"Thank you," Killian said instead, simply. "If it matters, I think yours would be proud of you."

Matthew opened his mouth, then shut it. Perhaps it was just the sheer, bone-bending exhaustion, but the not-quite-twenty-four-year-old man looked very much like a boy who had hungered his whole life to hear that, and he knuckled his hand roughly across his eyes, quickly discovering that he had to cough, as Killian considerately looked away. Then he pulled himself together enough to nod. "I think I will lie down a bit, yes. Good day, sir."

Killian nodded, and then since the captain had retired and there was no other ranking officer left, sat down in the coils of rope by the mast, where he could be awoken quickly in an emergency. He was so tired that he was seeing double, and thus he could have been lying on a bed of nails or stinging nettles and still gone to sleep, which he did. He dropped under swiftly and completely dreamlessly, and felt like he'd been clubbed when he stirred, some unknown interval of time later, to someone shaking his shoulder. "Whazit?" he said muzzily. "Someone attackin' us?"

"No. Mr. – Lieutenant Jones, we – is that it?"

Killian peeled his gritty eyes open and pushed himself unsteadily upright, trying to look more compos mentis than he felt in the least degree. The shadows were getting long, and somewhere in the low-lying clouds ahead, he could see something that might just be the pyramid of a mountainous island. A jolt of shock went through him. "I can't say for sure, I've never been there, but if we're on course – hold steady. I'll go wake the others."

The ship began to rouse from its communal stupor, filtering on deck with a tense, abstracted air like the calm before a storm. Killian was deeply relieved to see that Jack and Flint had managed not to kill each other yet, their respective wives holding firmly to their arms nonetheless. They were still at least an hour out, but Flint said that they were in the right place, and from here on, should proceed very carefully. Any one or several of their enemies could have beaten them here and set up a fortress in the eye of the skull, the one where the  _Walrus_ had been taken by surprise (Flint avoided, for once, reminding everyone who had surprised it) and the battle fought. The eye was reached via a long channel between steep headlands: one way in, and one way out. If they were sailing in with someone else already established at the end, they would be in range as long as they were in sight, and couldn't return fire except with the long nines, as their opponent would be directly in front of them and could have come about in order to bombard them broadside. It could turn into a deathtrap in an instant.

Nobody could doubt Flint's extensive knowledge of the place, not even Matthew, and he ordered the lamps doused and the colors struck, to remove as many visible signs of their approach or allegiance as he could. The long nines were loaded, just in case, with several backup stores of powder and shot brought up and stashed for safekeeping, and Killian found himself standing next to Jack, both of them staring at the distant green-black shadow of Skeleton Island as if their lives depended on it. "Hey," he said. "We're here. If Sam is anywhere nearby, we'll find him."

Jack grunted, though for once, he did not have something sharp to say. He tried to look away, as if this was a matter of only mild concern for him, but did not quite pull it off. "Probably in all the bloody trouble he can possibly manage. Must be a complete headache actually living with him."

"In some ways, yes, but we get by." Killian paused. "You know, if you and Charlotte and Cecilia want to, you're welcome to come home to Savannah with us. If you want to stay in Philadelphia, of course we'd understand, but… the offer's on the table."

Jack glanced briefly at him, then away, with almost the exact same reticence as Flint: refusing to snatch for something too badly wanted to ever believe in. "We're not friends, none of us. Is this some other pitying offer because you want to make up what happened to my – "

"This isn't about your uncle, lad, all right? It's for you, and whatever future you and your family would like to have. If I don't much miss my guess, you might not mind seeing my son again, either. It's all right. I never believed in my chance either. But it was there, and I had it, and… I just don't want to see you miss yours."

"I can't," Jack said, half strangled. "I can't do that. I – not before I kill my… not before…"

"Vengeance, you mean? You can't live until you have it?" Killian turned imploringly to him. "Lad, trust me, I know exactly how you feel.  _Exactly._ But the question comes down to whether it will be your vengeance or your life, and I think…" He hesitated. "You know, nobody liked Jonathan Howe very much, did they? Could be he's dead anyway."

Jack turned very sharply. "How the  _fuck_ did you know who my – who he is?"

"I knew him in my Navy days," Killian said, which was, after all, not a lie – it was where he had first met Howe, though it didn't explain how he knew that he was Jack's father. "And Charlotte and I had a conversation, she – she confirmed your father's name, so – "

"What else do you know about Howe? Do you know where to find him?"

"He could be – look, as I said, it's been a while, anything could have – "

"What, you think I'll be content just _assuming_ that monster could have tripped on a paving stone and broken his neck one day?" Jack let out a scathingly bitter laugh. "Here I was thinking you did understand,  _Hook!_ I can't, I can't stop, not until he's – "

"He's dead." God have mercy on his soul, but Killian could not look into those eyes – the boy's eyes, the angry, wounded ghost of his younger self in bondage and Sam Bellamy alike – and lie to him one more instant. "Jonathan Howe is dead, Jack. He's been dead for a few years. You aren't going to be able to kill him, because he's dead. I'm… I'm sorry."

Jack went completely still, so much that Killian could almost see the air moving around him, as if in the void, the darkness on the face of the deep before the moment of Creation. For the first time, he was almost afraid of the younger man, or rather what might be going on inside him, as he knew that surrender to utmost and drowning darkness all too well. "Jack, listen, it's not – "

Jack's head came up with a snap. "How do you know that?"His voice was ice and fire alike, withering as a winter dragon.  _"How do you know?"_

"I – look, someone killed him, it's complicated, you have to – "

" _HOW DO YOU KNOW?"_

Jack's roar turned heads, cutting off low murmurs of conversation, and a ghastly silence fell. He stood there, fists clenched, eyes almost completely black, as a palpable chill swept the deck. Killian reached out for him, but Jack recoiled, slapping his hand away. "WHAT HAPPENED TO HOWE?"

Over Jack's shoulder, Killian saw Charlotte go dead white. She looked at him frantically, and he could think of nothing to defend himself, not when he had done the exact thing she had asked him not to. Charlotte could have shouted at him then, or tried to blame him for breaking his promise, but instead she took half a step, then another, toward her incandescently furious husband. "I…" Her voice, by comparison, was a breathy, terrified squeak. "Jack, I… Jack, I was going to tell you, I  _swear_ I was going to tell you, I just…"

"What did you do?  _What did you do?"_

"I…" Charlotte shrank visibly in her skin, as it seemed to take all her effort and strength of will to meet those demonic eyes. "Jack, I killed him. Before we left London. I didn't want – I didn't dare risk him following us. I – I didn't tell you, I know it wasn't fair, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I thought that if I had done your vengeance, you could… I just needed – I was afraid that then you might not… with Alix…"

Jack stared back at her, motionless as a statue. The crew had hastily retreated to every side, leaving them facing each other, some of the men averting their eyes and others with gazes fixed – the Bells' most private betrayal played out before a public court of their enemies. It would take a heart of stone not to feel terrible for them, and Killian was sick at the part he himself had played in it – and yet, was utterly unable to do any differently. The silence felt as if a single spark would ignite the explosion. Then Jack said, barely above a whisper, "I  _trusted_ you."

"Jack – " Charlotte's eyes were flooding with tears. "Jack, I – "

" _I trusted you!"_ It was a raw shout this time, ringing with agonized fury.  _"I trusted you,_ you were the first person who was truly my family, who I thought cared about me, wanted the best for me – but you just wanted my rage, didn't you? Just saw me as the only useful soldier you had to hand! Thought I wouldn't keep my promises, that I wouldn't – I  _promised!_ What did you think vows were, what they meant, when it was the two of us now and it had only ever been one? I meant it with every bit of me! I would have helped you, I would have walked through hell for you, I would have done  _anything_ for you! Jesus Christ, Charlotte!  _Jesus – Christ!"_

"Please," Charlotte begged, voice breaking in earnest. "Please. Let me help you, let me make it up. Jack, please. What can I do – please, tell me what to do.  _Please."_

Jack didn't answer, every inch of him strung too tightly to hold. Everything seemed to teeter on the edge of an impossible abyss. And then, just then, was when James Flint stepped forward. "Jack," he said. "Jack, don't – "

Whether this was,  _Jack, don't listen to her,_ or  _Jack, don't do this,_ or  _Jack, don't_ – something else entirely, they didn't find out. That, somehow, was what snapped Jack out of his frozen state, and he whirled around and punched Flint in the face, hard enough to hear bones crack, blood flashing dark in the only deck lantern left alight. Flint had taken enough punches in his time not to go down on first hit, and swung out reflexively, but while he was a very accomplished brawler for his age, this was different from surprising Lieutenant Warwick with his back turned. Jack took Flint's blow full-on, in the chest, but he barely even seemed to feel it, much less for it to make any difference. He punched Flint again, perhaps sheerly for the need to have someone to hit, and then lunged for the pistol that the still-infirm Mr. Sherwood's superior, the gunner, was wearing at his waist. He got hold of it, yanked it free, and there was a scramble for cover as Jack pointed it wildly in every direction.  _"You all stay away from me!"_

Miranda screamed, a terrible sound, as if thinking she was about to witness her husband being shot by the ghost of her dead love, but Jack didn't pull the trigger. He grabbed Flint ferociously around the neck instead, Flint struggled, and Jack punched him a third time, even harder, as Flint staggered and grunted in pain. With the gun still in his free hand, he dragged Flint bodily across the deck – no mean feat – and toward the  _Griffin's_ longboat, where he flung them both in. "Anyone takes a step," Jack said,  _"one step,_ or tries anything else,I swear to fucking Jesus I will shoot him right here. Now lower it."

Nobody moved.

" _LOWER IT!"_

The men exchanged half an intimidated glance, and after the briefest abbreviation of a nod from Matthew, did as ordered, hauling on the hoist. The longboat swung out over the dark water, Jack still with one arm around Flint's neck and the gun at his temple, until they splashed down. Then he pulled the ropes free, forced Flint to sit across from him with a brusque jab of the gun, and slid the oars into the locks. Seeing the faces still gaping down at him in blanched, numb silence, Jack shouted, "We're going to Skeleton Island. We have a little errand to run. I don't advise interfering."

With that, he pointed the gun back at Flint – who, after a terrible pause, picked up the oars and with no other choice, started to row. The longboat sculled swiftly away from the  _Griffin,_ and before much longer, vanished without a trace into the falling night.


	25. XXV

The first thing Jim Hawkins was aware of, once the pounding in his head and other disorientation that accompanied his recent excursion into unconsciousness had somewhat worn off, was that he was in the brig. Which brig exactly was a matter of consultation, but he had unfortunately seen the inside of enough of the things to be sure. He was sprawled on some rather squalid straw, still soaking wet from his plunge into the ocean – he remembered falling from his rope after the sound of a gunshot, was momentarily afraid that it had hit him, but he was fairly sure it hadn't. Then he had woken up on a deck with a lot of shouting and blurs, someone who unfortunately did not look like Geneva standing above him, and someone else dragging him off to the ongoing commotion of a brawl behind him. He thought he could pick out a familiar voice – that someone who sounded like John Silver had been shouting for him – but couldn't be sure. That, combined with the dragging, and of course the overall result of the brig, seemed to confirm it beyond a doubt. He wasn't on the  _Rose._ He was a prisoner on the  _Hispaniola,_ under Lord Gideon Murray's dubious mercies, and also beyond a doubt, heading for Skeleton Island.  _Is this where you get that annoying little saying about being careful what you wish for?_

Jim shifted position with a grunt of discomfort, having unpleasant flashbacks to that week he had spent trussed up in the bowels of Bristol city gaol with Liam Jones, falsely accused of burning down the Benbow. That reminded him, he still owed Lady Fiona Murray a punch in the face for that, and if anything useful was to come of being ambushed and tricked by her total brat of an adopted son, they might be able to catch up to her. Also, or at least he hoped, if she was remotely in a position to do so, Geneva would be chasing them with the  _Rose._ Had her uncle made it back? Or was he still here somewhere as well? Perhaps put into more stringent confinement, or –

As it was reasonably plain that Thomas was not in the brig with him – in fact, lucky for Jim, he got the place all to himself – he had to hope that Thomas had made it off, as the alternative was not pleasant. Jim didn't  _think_ that Gideon would risk shooting such a valuable hostage point-blank, but then, he had rather abruptly lost control of the situation. If he was trying to ensure that his threats had teeth… perhaps Jim should have wanted Geneva to lose her much-loved uncle, some sort of twisted payback for his father, but, as was fairly clear, he didn't. Didn't want that, and did want several other things. MacSweeney had better keep his freckled mitts off her, or alternatively he could try, which was certain to be very amusing for all parties not named MacSweeney. A wry grin pulled Jim's mouth.  _Too bad I'd miss that._

With that, he sagged back against the wall and groaned. Of all the times to admit that you were seriously in love with the girl whose father had murdered yours, this had to rank near the bottom. Of course it had been a crush from the start, albeit tempered with a never-ending series of misadventures and unhappy revelations, but this… well, this was different. If even this couldn't make him be mad at Geneva for more than a few days, it was plain that there was nothing he would ever be able to hold against her, nothing he wouldn't forgive her for, and the way she had been looking at him… perhaps it wasn't  _quite_ so unrequited as all that. There could be a chance, a real chance.  _Assuming I get out of this damn hellhole._ Wasn't love supposed to make a man do great things? If he got up and ran at the bars right now, would they burst aside in a glorious shower as he charged forth, hair blowing, to his fair lady? Probably not. _Worth a try, though?_

Jim squinted up through the slats, trying to work out what time it was. Early morning, maybe, though it was hard to be sure. It was ominously quiet above, which was probably a bad sign. At least no shooting, which he had a feeling he would have noticed, distracted state or not. Would they be trying to sink the  _Rose_ outright, now that Geneva had blown the lid off the little Jacobite secret (God, she was so bloody clever, he had no idea how she'd put that together, but of course she had) and there was no more objective need for them? It certainly seemed an unnecessary risk for Gideon to run if he was trying to scoop the Skeleton Island hoard for the Stuarts, and Geneva had caused him more than enough trouble. Jim didn't think he was here in an attempt for Gideon to coerce her, but rather to keep Silver's arm twisted. Somewhat less effective at the task than Thomas and Madi, but then, that had gone sideways. And Jim  _had_  thought Silver liked him, a bit, once. There was no way to know if that would extend to risking himself again to protect him.

Jim stared up through the dim timbers, supposing it was too much to hope that someone was deputed to feed the prisoners. He wondered where Geneva was, if she was all right. He was just considering if it was worth it to shout until someone showed up, when he heard a creak on the ladder and the slow, deliberate thump of a descent. Someone made their way through the shadows, then reached the bars. "Hawkins."

A very unhappy shock of recognition went through Jim like a broken spar.  _"You?"_

Israel Hands grunted in sardonic amusement. His damp, grizzled hair was knotted out of his scarred face and seawater was still dripping from his beard like some vengeful incarnation of Poseidon as he leaned on the grate. "Aye. Me. Was the one pulled you out of the water, boy, after you fell from the  _Rose_. That ginger cunt of an Irishman let me out, when he was putting the redcoat in. Fuck of an irony, wouldn't you say?"

Jim didn't answer. He hadn't known who his rescuer was, being unconscious for most of the excitement, but he'd thought at worst it was one of MacSweeney's lads, or one of Gideon's, seizing the opportunity for a new hostage after the others were escaping. This added an entirely new and completely unwelcome wrinkle to his presence aboard the  _Hispaniola,_ and he did his best to affect a cool stare. Hating to ask Hands anything, but still needing to know, he said, "Thomas – Thomas Hamilton, what happened to – "

Hands shrugged. "He got off. That's why they're keeping you close. That Lord Gideon, he's promised me a full pardon if I assist in the recovery of the treasure for His Majesty, King James Stuart of Great Britain and Ireland." He sounded the names out with a mocking tenor that left Jim in no doubt of Hands' actual feelings on the subject. "That's where you come in. You get our friend, John Silver, to tell you where the cache is, and anything else that I might need. He knows, he bloody well knows, and you have half a chance at winkling it out of him."

"You think so?" Jim scoffed, trying to sound appropriately dismissive. "Me get it from  _him?_ Much less pass it on to you? Why do you think I'd ever – "

Hands grinned a rather ghastly, tobacco-juice-stained grin. "You're the one behind bars now, boy, not me. And by my lights, don't have a terribly good chance of getting out alive, unless you decide to be useful. Even if Silver was so foolish as to try to spring you, you think you'd get far, him hopping on one leg? As I said. You get him to tell you where the cache is hidden, and I'll let you out. I'll cut you in on a share of the money, and put in a good word for you to Lord Murray. Otherwise, I'll tell him all them things I heard about you in Bristol, get him to drum up some charges, and have them hang you on a branch." He shrugged. "Deserter from the Navy, was it?"

"Discharged," Jim growled.  _Dishonorably discharged,_ in fact, but that was a very pertinent distinction, as outright desertion was indeed punishable by death. "And aren't you just a bloody little ray of lunatic sunshine, same as ever?"

"I told the Jones chit, back on the  _Rose_ ," Hands said. "Whatever is there on Skeleton Island, it's mine, and if Lord Murray needs to think I'm helping him get it, that is what he'll think. As I also said, I won't have John Silver fucking it up. The last thing we need from him is where to find the treasure, otherwise I'd have bludgeoned him to death with his fucking leg already. He's not telling me, so…" He trailed off significantly. "He's telling you."

"And you think we're working together, why?"

"Because you'll rot down here forever if you don't. Seemed obvious, and you a bright lad. Don't want to get back to the lass at all?" Hands took a goading step. "Or I could shout for the redcoats and tell 'em you're useless as a hostage. Should I?"

"Jesus," Jim said. "You're the fucking worst."

Hands did not appear terribly ruffled by this assessment of his character. "Just trying to live, boy, the same as any man in this world. I've no reason to bear a grudge against you particularly, but I'm not one to risk you stopping me. Easy, eh? Easy. I'm sure Silver will find an excuse to drip down here like piss down a leg. All you do is get him to talk – that one fucking loves to talk, shouldn't even be that hard. Then I kill him, we retrieve the treasure together once we arrive on the island, and lie low until the  _Rose_ gets there after us. Imagine it will, after all. You'll be reunited with the bloody girl and have plenty of money for it. In't that what you want?"

Jim didn't answer. Yes, he did want the money, not least to rebuild his mother's inn, and yes, he very much did want to get out of this briny hellpit and see Geneva again, but even that was not enough to make him overlook the clear and patent danger of entering into commerce of any kind with Israel bloody Hands. Not that he presently had many other options, but still. Silver  _had_ told him about his father's death at Killian Jones' hand in an apparent attempt to sow division between him and Geneva, and then of course God knew what had gone on with the mutiny, so it wasn't as if Hands was asking him to buy this with some unforgivable death.  _Long John Silver, the pirate king._ Even Billy Bones had feared him, otherwise why worry that he might follow him? Jim remembered seeing Silver shoot the mutineer easy as anything in the hold of the  _Rose_ , and then stamp Job Anderson to death on the deck.  _But he helped me save Madi. Trusted Geneva. For what reason, or if he's switched sides yet bloody again, I don't even know._

"Think fast, boy," Hands advised. "I'll be down here again in a few hours – we're not that far out from Skeleton Island, according to Silver. Could be landing by nightfall. You'll want to know what you're doing. Till then."

With that, he turned and stumped off, as Jim watched him go balefully and thought of several really excellent and profane things to say under his breath. He leaned back against the fetid straw, heard some scratching that sounded like rats, and got to his feet instead, pacing the few steps allowable in the cramped floor space. At least his clothes were almost dry, as if that counted as an upside. He was just about to see if any other prisoners had left a rind of cheese or heel of bread somewhere in the straw, though the rats had most likely gotten to it first, when he heard more footsteps on the ladder, and the slow clunk of a peg leg.  _Oh, bloody hell, here we go._

Jim sat back down, as if to look less as if he had been waiting for this, as John Silver limped into view, face well lacerated with cuts and bruises that he must have taken while being swarmed by half a dozen redcoats earlier. He reached the brig, steadied himself as the  _Hispaniola_  rolled unexpectedly beneath them, and then held out a piece of hardtack and a withered apple through the bars. "Here," he said quietly. "It's not much."

Jim was hungry enough that even this modest offering looked like manna, and he tried not to run too fast to retrieve them. He flicked a maggot out of the biscuit and sucked on a corner, trying to soften it to the point of edibility. They stood there in silence for several moments, one on each side of the grate, as Silver looked away whenever Jim tried to catch his eye. Finally, when the hardtack was gone except for crumbs, and the apple had been gnawed to a core, Jim tossed it into the straw, heard the rats start to fight over it, and said, "Well."

Silver grimaced, rubbing the back of his ringed hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have ended up here. I've tried to convince Lord Gideon to free you when we reach Skeleton Island, but he suspects – rightfully, I imagine – that you would run back to the  _Rose_ as swiftly as you could, and give away our position. So – "

"Like with the mutiny?" Jim tried to keep his voice level, but anger ran rough at the edges. "You said you'd go out to talk them down, and then instead you appoint yourself their king and try to carry it through to all ends?"

"I did what I had to do." Silver reached out to grip the bars, almost as if he was willing himself to be behind them instead, that he and Jim should trade places on the instant. "Even I am not a sorcerer, could not change their minds altogether. Why not make myself their – as you say – king, and ensure that they vented their spleens without harming you, Geneva, Madi, or Thomas? Tempers would have cooled, sense would have returned – or I would have made sure that it did – and then I'd hand the ship back to Geneva. That was the idea. You yourself threw somewhat of a wrench in it, when you set off the flare to alert this very vessel."

"Forgive me for not miraculously understanding that you had a wise plan to save us by betraying us first," Jim said coolly. "Then again, isn't that how it seems to work with you?"

"You are…" Silver paused, chewing over his words. "You are not incorrect, I suppose," he said after a moment, bitterly. "I blame none of you, least of all you yourself, for the notions you have formed of what I do, and who I am. That was no lie, after all. You saw Long John Silver, and you were right to be afraid of him. That mask and mantle is one I put on at the uttermost end of need, and each time it poisons me a bit more. Perhaps the day comes – perhaps has already come, long ago – when the mask is all that remains. And that is the last thing in the world that still frightens me." His grip tightened. "I do not expect nor merit your forgiveness."

Jim regarded him silently. "So you will. . . get me out,  _if_ you can, once you have already handed me over to Lord Murray? Or do you just intend to – "

"If I can at all get you back to Geneva," Silver said, "I will. No doubt you have further questions as to why I acted in regard as I did with the two of you, which we, frankly, do not have time to delve into. We will, by my estimate, reach Skeleton Island by nightfall. I lost sight of the  _Rose_ some while ago, but I would be quite sure they are still on our tail somewhere. We are coming into the island from the east, so someone else could be on the western side. That won't do them much good, the  _Walrus_ wrecked on the east side, so we'll not be far from the cache when we land. If it's still afloat, that is. Otherwise, Flint's chest is slightly inland, by a distinctive rock. Hopefully, it will take Murray long enough in retrieving it for Geneva and Thomas to catch up."

Jim's stomach turned uncomfortably. He almost wanted to warn Silver to be careful, that Hands could be skulking behind a bulkhead and waiting to glean this exact information; he had not even asked for it explicitly, but did that make him complicit in Hands' schemes? He and Silver remained looking at each other; Jim was several inches taller, but he still felt as if he was standing in the older man's shadow, somehow. Finally he said, "So I'm supposed to trust that, am I? Just wait here in the brig until, at some point, you'll be back to fetch me, and – ?"

"Then we will assist Lord Murray in his valorous mission, of course." Silver looked at Jim for a long moment, head cocked to the side, almost as if he was waiting for him to understand something else. "I'll see if I can bring some more food. Otherwise, yes. Don't try anything reckless. Promise me that."

It was on the tip of Jim's tongue to ask what good Silver could possibly think would come of him promising, or why it mattered, or what theoretical reckless thing he could even attempt in his current predicament. He already knew, however, that he was not about to get any answers. As Silver turned to go, however, Jim blurted out, "Don't you think someone could – "

"Do I think someone could what?"

"Kill. . . you." He wasn't being very subtle about this at all, but the time was past for playing it conservatively. "If you're the only one who knows the location of the treasure stash, and then you tell them that, they don't have any further use for you, they – someone might – "

Silver smiled, which never reached his eyes. "Your concern is appreciated, Mr. Hawkins. Thank you. We'll speak again shortly, then? Good day."

With that, he moved off, as Jim watched him tensely, half-expecting Hands to jump out at him and open his throat with a whaling knife on the spot. But Silver climbed up the ladder, back toward the deck, so surely Hands couldn't murder him there in full view of everyone? Jim was left with the unsettling sensation that he had missed something, or there was some sort of current at work beyond the obvious, though he was at a loss to say remotely what. Silver had not defended his actions in the least, but nor had he apologized for them, or definitively renounced Long John – if anything, he had given Jim a veiled warning that that part of him would only continue to grow stronger.  _And what does that mean for any of us, but woe?_

Time continued to crawl past, the weak grey sun appearing and disappearing through the cracks. A cabin boy appeared at some point with something more resembling food, which he shoved at Jim without speaking. Once he had eaten it, Jim was quite sure that the finite pleasures of captivity had now been exhausted, and kept looking up sharply at small creaks or cracks. It had to be going on late afternoon, and the ship's pace had slowed in a way that meant they had to have spotted their destination and were preparing for a cautious approach, when the unwanted shadow once more darkened his door. "You, boy."

Jim let out an irritated breath. He had thought about lying down and trying to sleep, as it was plain that he would soon be needing his energy one way or another, but that seemed liable to get him eaten by rats or fleas, so he had been propped uncomfortably against the wall, half-dozing. "You," he said, just as coldly. "We there yet, then?"

"They've sighted the island, yes. Should be ashore in less than an hour. So." Israel Hands folded his arms. "You have something to say to me, boy?"

Jim could not help but be reminded of Captain Smollett again, whom he had generally gravely disappointed during his time on HMS  _Adventure –_ not that Smollett and Hands had anything whatsoever in common except that sneering, disapproving way they called him "boy." It got under his skin, even knowing that was the exact point of it: that he was a boy, a gullible, aimless, useless child, who could not aspire to true manhood or respect or valor. Hands had already threatened to snitch on all Jim's misdeeds in Bristol, which he must have heard over the grapevine, as if every merchant and longshoreman and quayside whore in the entire city had nothing better to do than gossip about James Joseph Hawkins Junior's manifest inadequacies (though the whores, at least, wouldn't have personal experience). As if Killian Jones hadn't ruined Jim's life by depriving him of a father, at least not directly. No, the full and sole responsibility for the dog's breakfast he had made of his life would, in that estimation, rest with him.  _Boy._ It kept ringing like a far worse taunt.  _Boy._

"Well?" Hands prodded, into the silence. "You go deaf?"

"I – no." Jim threw his shoulders back and stared defiantly at Hands. "Silver told me."

"And?"

"You think I'm an idiot? I'll tell you when we're on shore. Otherwise, you'll pole-ax me here and leave me for the rats." Jim smiled, trying his best impression of Silver's sleek, dangerous demeanor. "Tit for tat, isn't that how the saying goes?"

Hands' face went slightly purple, a vein twitching in his temple in a way that made Jim hope for a fortunate apoplexy. No such luck, however. After a moment, he growled, "And how do I have any proof you aren't lying?"

"Well," Jim said. "You don't. But aye, you can go ahead and take the risk, if you actually feel like killing me before you've made completely sure. Good bloody luck trying to get it out of Silver after that, but perhaps you like a challenge."

Hands ground his teeth, but it was fairly apparent to both of them that Jim had called his bluff. He considered, spat, then produced a large keyring he had clearly stolen, unlocked the cell, and collared Jim roughly, pulling him out and toward the fetters hanging on the wall nearby. Once he had locked Jim's wrists into a pair of these, he grabbed the chain and marched him toward the ladder, a low commotion of voices audible from above. Jim climbed awkwardly with his cuffed hands, and finally stepped out onto the deck of the  _Hispaniola,_  where Gideon, the redcoats, and Silver had gathered to witness their final approach. A broad white-sand beach stretched across the mouth of a shallow bay, palm trees dark in the lengthening shadows, and beyond, a wall of dense jungle rose almost straight up into the interior, with the summit of some distant green mountain just catching the last of the light. It looked like any other remote Caribbean island, hardly worthy of its mystic and legendary pedigree, and Gideon surveyed it narrowly. "Are you sure this is it, Mr. Silver?"

Silver arched an eyebrow. "Believe me, the one subject on which I can be trusted unconditionally is Skeleton Island. As I said, we are approaching from the east, so it looks different to what you may expect. If you want to put together an expeditionary party – and surely these irons are not necessary for Mr. Hawkins – we can get on with retrieving the treasure."

Gideon turned with a look of some annoyance. "Who put him in irons?"

"He did," Jim said, rattling them in Hands' general direction. "Really sure you want that one sneaking around your prisoners?"

Gideon's lips went thin, but he made a brusque motion, and one of the redcoats removed the fetters. Jim, Silver, and Hands were loaded into the ship's boat with Gideon and a dozen redcoats, and as the soldiers started to pull the oars, crossing the wine-dark water toward the beach, Jim did his damndest to come up with his next move. Hands would probably try to pull him off into the trees, to improve the chances of him alone hearing the location of the treasure stash, but if Silver then told the entire party, that wouldn't do him much good, as they would all know where to go. Hands could definitely kill Jim anyway for frustrating him, but –

In a few more minutes, and with Jim having figured out exactly nothing, the keel of the longboat ground on the shore, and the redcoats jumped overboard to haul it clear of the waves. Jim stepped over the side, boots touching Skeleton Island sand for the first time, and tilted his head back to look at the impressive prospect of the trees. They were thick and dark and still as a solid wall, until he had no trouble at all imagining that this place could gulp up a man, a hundred men, and keep them confused and wandering for months or years, never coming across each other and never remembering where they had already been. All at once, Jim wasn't terribly sure that he wanted to go in there himself. The place seemed almost sentient, and far from friendly.

Silver got up slowly, cautious on his peg leg, and climbed out of the boat, watching as the redcoats slung muskets on their backs and scouted for suitable branches to make torches. "I would not advise a nighttime expedition into the jungle, gentlemen," he said. "This place is hard enough to navigate in daylight, you'll get yourself miserably lost if you try it in the dark. There are all sort of hidden perils – caves, ravines, waterfalls, poisonous serpents, mud sloughs, the lot. Scout it briefly, but I'd advise returning to the  _Hispaniola_ for the night, and starting tomorrow."

"First," Gideon said, pointing at him. "You tell us where the treasure is."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Hands tense. By the way Silver shifted position, almost imperceptibly, he must have noticed it as well. Then, with a significant look at Hands, he said, "Well, since there's no sign of the  _Walrus,_ it must have sunk after all, which means that Flint's cache is the only one that remains. It'll be about half a mile inland from here, more or less true west, by a distinctive-looking rock. Nothing that a man with a peg leg could not walk, so if you find yourself in rough terrain, you're off course."

The redcoats glanced at each other, then huddled up for a conference, as Gideon stared into the trees and Silver casually tilted his head at Jim and Hands. Both of them started after him, Hands reaching for the pistol tucked into his waistband and Jim's heart pounding in his throat, until they reached a slightly hidden spot behind a tall rock. The instant they were out of sight of the redcoats, Hands drew the gun and cocked it. "You were lying about the location to those sons of bitches, weren't you? I'll have the proper spot, and now."

Silver raised his hands slowly, eyes on Hands' trigger finger; after all, they had learned back on the  _Rose_ not to underestimate the damage he could do if he got off a shot. "Perhaps," he said. "But you claimed to be aboard the  _Queen Anne's Revenge_ when Blackbeard was killed by Woodes Rogers, and that by default, the portion of the lost treasure was yours. You know, of course, that Rogers then sailed the  _Revenge_ to Skeleton Island, so surely if you were aboard at the time, you would be much more certain of the exact coordinates?"

"No more talk, you oily motherfucker." Hands trained the gun on the center of Silver's forehead. "No more tricks. Where is it?"

"You don't know, do you?" Despite the gravity of the situation, a grim smile twisted up Silver's mouth. "You've never been here. You don't know that the  _Walrus_ did in fact sink on the western side, not the eastern side, so it wouldn't be here even if it was still partially afloat. You don't know – well, now you do, I suppose – that Flint's cache isn't on the eastern side at all. You're a liar, Israel Hands, and you have no more entitlement to Blackbeard's share of the treasure, if it could even be retrieved, than you do to be king of England – though given our hosts' political sympathies, it seems that office is once more up for grabs. Am I wrong?"

Hands stared at him, the vein going more furiously than ever in his temple, eyes bulging. He did not, however, rush to shout Silver down, and in that silence, Jim could hear the truth. Finally Hands said in a grating rasp, "Fine. I was exiled from Blackbeard's crew before the  _Revenge_ and her bloody captain met their end here – and a fucking good thing I was, otherwise I'd have been killed by Rogers and the Navy scabs too. But you  _are_ wrong. I'm still the last survivor of Blackbeard's cohort, so the treasure's mine anyway. And now you're going to tell me, or – "

Silver's eyes flicked to Jim, then back to Hands. "You see," he said. "You would have been correct if you said you were the last survivor of Blackbeard's  _crew._ But at the time of Blackbeard's death, he was sailing in cohort with the  _Walrus –_ and I need not remind you of my own position aboard that vessel. So we're both survivors of Blackbeard's  _cohort,_ and there's the fact that Billy Bones is, at last report, alive as well, so that makes three of us. You'd have to kill us both to actually be the sole inheritor of the treasure, and while I am directly before you and available for such an opportunity, Bones' whereabouts are unknown. The redcoats are going to get rid of you anyway, as you're a mad dog, so frankly, you've failed. Comprehensively, in fact. You're not going to get to that treasure, not if anyone can help it, and  _now, Jim, NOW!"_

Jim had been poised on his toes, not knowing where this was leading but ready for the signal nonetheless, and with that, he jumped at Hands, tackling him flat just as he was about to shoot. He and Hands hit the sand together, rolling and struggling furiously, as Hands grappled for the dropped pistol, but Jim got to it first. The world seemed to slow, stretch out, as he snatched it, whirled it around, and saw in his mind's eye Hands shooting at Geneva, the fact that he would have blown up the  _Rose,_ everything, all of it. He had never killed a man before, but he did not hesitate. Pointed, cocked, and pulled the trigger.

The explosion of the gunshot made seabirds rise in a screeching swarm, echoing off the trees, as Hands fell backwards, a red-black hole drilled into his forehead. It was followed by the shouts of the redcoats from down the beach, realizing that they had let their hostages wander out of sight and start playing with firearms. Still operating purely on instinct, Jim grabbed the extra pistol from Hands' belt (of course he wasn't the sort of bloke to half-ass it with one gun) with one hand and Silver with the other, yanking them backward into the thick drape of moss. There was a narrow channel of hard-packed sand, clearly a tidal rivulet, and it provided firm enough footing for them to both to run, so to speak. Silver kept slipping and struggling even so, and Jim was not about to be caught again on account of him, so he slung Silver's arm over his shoulder and half-carried him. Just ahead, there was a dark hole at the foot of a large rock – judging by the high-water marks almost to the top, this would all be submerged when the tide came in – but they didn't need to hide for long. Jim dragged Silver down into it, and they landed with a splash in a foot of briny, stagnant tidepool, just as the redcoats ran past, shouting.

The fading light flickered weirdly on the weed-wracked boulders that tilted over their heads, and Jim could hear his harsh breathing echoing like the ghosts of a hundred more men, crammed impossibly into this tiny space. He could not quite straighten up all the way, and even Silver had to stoop, the two of them staring each other down without speaking, tense all over for any sound of the redcoats returning. Then Jim pulled out the second gun and aimed it at him again. "What the  _hell,"_  he managed, still panting, "did you do?"

"You'll need to be more specific." Silver sat down heavily on one of the slimy rocks, the current eddying around his mismatched legs. "Careful, Jim, another shot and they'll – "

"I'm aware." Jim didn't lower the gun. "So what you told Hands about the location of the treasure was a lie. You told me the same thing back on the  _Hispaniola._ Why?"

Despite himself, Silver looked rather grudgingly impressed. He raised a hand to his face, then dropped it. "I suspected Hands would try to use you to leverage me for information," he admitted at last. "I told you so you would have something to pass onto him, and either prove or disprove my theory – proven, as we saw back there – that he had in fact never been here before. I couldn't risk doing it any other way. You had to believe what you were telling him."

"And if I  _had_ told him, he'd likely have killed us both."

"Yes." Silver leaned forward. "But you didn't. You don't have to trust me, and I am well aware you have every good reason not to. But if nothing else, both of us – Geneva, we have to – "

"Did you see the  _Rose?_ Do you know if they're chasing us?"

"They fell out of sight a few hours after Gideon's men pulled you and Hands out of the water." Silver's eyes flicked up at the hole above their heads, clearly listening hard. "If Geneva is clever – and she is – she's luffing or lollygagging, trying to make them believe they lost her."

"Unless they  _did_ lose her."

"I doubt it," Silver said. "And so, I think, do you. Besides, before I was taken off as a prisoner, I took the liberty of concealing a copy of the coordinates for Skeleton Island in Geneva's surgical kit. She's the only one who's been using that, tending to Eleanor, and it's the one place the fucking redcoats, stripping the place down for extra money, won't have looked. So even if the  _Rose_ genuinely did fall behind, they will know how to find us again."

"If Geneva finds those coordinates, and realizes what they are, in time."

"I believe in her," Silver said simply. "Do you?"

"Aye." Jim answered without hesitation, and their eyes met in a moment of brief, poignant mutual understanding, Then they glanced away, both going hurriedly silent at the sound of tramping footsteps overhead. One of the voices came perilously close to the hole, but then moved away. It took several minutes after it had faded for Jim to speak again. "So that's our plan? Hide out here from the angry redcoats, until Geneva hopefully reaches us and we can find a way to get back to the  _Rose_ and off this island? Just… that?"

"Not entirely." Silver glanced down at the water, which had been around his ankle when they entered, and was starting to creep up his calf. "The tide is coming in, Jim, we can't risk getting trapped down here. We – all right, all right."

"I'm not finished." Jim brandished the pistol, which had been what made Silver sit back down precipitately. "Is that the plan?"

"In its broad strokes, more or less."

"What about the money? The treasure? The whole reason we came here? Flint's cache, what might be the only remaining chest from the 1715 treasure if the  _Walrus_ is gone? Where is it?"

There was a very long pause, as they heard the continuing hiss and sigh of the incoming tide. Then Silver said, "I don't know."

" _What?_ This whole time – Skeleton Island being the 'one subject on which you could be trusted unconditionally?' What else was this for, if not – "

"This was never about the treasure." Silver almost looked as if he had not meant to say that, but couldn't stop himself. "My interest in a venture to this place was never about retrieving it. It was about catching up with Billy Bones, and knowing that this must be where he was headed, the one priceless piece of information he had to trade. It was knowing that if he was alive, he would try to hurt or kill James Flint and his family. I was trying to save them. That is what I wanted."

Jim opened his mouth and shut it. Finally he said, "Why do you owe that to Flint?"

"Because I – " Silver looked down at the rising water, clearly desperately uncomfortable that he had no escape hatch, physically or otherwise. If Jim didn't help him climb out, he would be stuck down here to drown, if Jim didn't shoot him first. There was no way to back out or avoid the subject, and he closed his eyes, as if commending the tattered remnants of his soul to whatever god could be bothered to have it. "I killed him here. Not physically, but in all other ways. He had decided to die before we left Nassau, because he had lost Miranda Barlow and Sam Bellamy both, back to back, and felt he had nothing more to live for. He would have taken us all down with him; if I had not arranged for the  _Rose_ to switch sides, Emma Swan and myself and all his men would have been stranded here or shot by the redcoats as well."

Jim gave a brief start of surprise at hearing the name  _Rose,_ at which Silver nodded tersely. "Emma took it over after Skeleton Island, she passed it to Geneva, her daughter, when she was eighteen. In any event, we had come here to stash the Spanish treasure before the battle of Nassau. Woodes Rogers tricked and killed Blackbeard and took command of the  _Queen Anne's Revenge_ to follow us. Flint went ashore with a chest while the  _Revenge,_ under Rogers' command, and the  _Walrus,_ under Emma's, were shooting it out. I followed him in a row boat, snuck ashore unnoticed in the commotion and went into the woods. When I caught up to him, he must have already buried the chest. He asked what I was doing there. I said that I had come to…" Silver paused. "I said I had come to ensure that no matter what, he did not return."

Jim nodded once, indicating him to continue. The tide was now close to his knees, even standing, and seemed to be increasing its pace, they did not have time to spare. "And?"

"We saw the  _Walrus_ burning," Silver said, almost dreamily. "Flint had already sworn he wanted no more of the war and wanted to go and die – though his death, as I said, would have meant all of ours as well. But seeing his ship aflame ignited that old hunger for vengeance in him, and he would have gone back to continue the fight. He told me that his last wish of Emma had been for her to save me, and I should go now, where there was still time to honor it. And that was when I had to look him in the eye, draw my gun, and tell him that first I had to kill him."

Silver paused for breath, then plunged on. "We said several things to each other. There is not time or necessity to recount them all. I reminded him that all his loved ones – Thomas Hamilton and Miranda Barlow and Sam Bellamy – were dead. I reminded him of what a monster and a madman Flint was, how the only thing he had ever brought to the world was woe and terror, and how he had to drown that man in the sea, as he had once said he so dearly wanted. I said that if he made any move to follow us, I would have to shoot him like a dog then and there, and I wanted no part of that crime, but I would take it upon myself at uttermost need. At any price, including my own soul, Captain Flint was not returning to the world, or to Nassau, or to myself and Emma, and the lifeline I had fashioned for us on the  _Rose._ In a few minutes, I destroyed our entire relationship of months and months, everything we had done for each other and with each other, in service of some mad promise of a future for everyone. It was an absurd gamble. The battle of Nassau was being fought at that very moment, but not yet won. We could have returned to a world where Gold and Rogers and their ilk were victorious, and I had just, by my own hand, destroyed our last and most fearsome commander. I could have subjected us all to the noose if I was wrong. It turned out, of course, that I was not."

Silver stopped, looking wracked and ruined, rubbing both hands across his face and clearly silently begging Jim to leave it there, but Jim still did not budge. So he gulped a final breath and finished as tersely as possible. "Suffice to say. Flint did not follow me. I left him there, knowing full well he was likely to die anyway, stranded on a dangerous island far from anywhere, while I had consciously kicked out all of the crutches he clung to in order to walk, as much as I cling to mine. I made my way back out to the  _Rose,_ and returned with Emma to Nassau. That is Long John Silver. That is what he – what  _I_ did – a cruelty that perhaps even Flint never quite achieved. I have lived ever since haunted by the guilt and the madness and the question of it, if there was any other way, if there was any other choice. And of course, I was, as ever, a liar. Miranda and Thomas were  _not_ dead. Flint survived, escaped Skeleton Island, reunited with them, and has lived many happy years since. I am glad for it. But my crime is not atoned."

"So?"

"I don't know where the treasure is." Silver looked up at him. "I bought you all with the promise of something I once again cannot pay. More lies, more trickery, in an attempt to erase the cost of the  _previous_ lies and trickery. I can't help you find it, or rebuild your mother's inn, or anything else you thought you were gaining from this absurdly dangerous venture. I brought you and Geneva and the others here to be sure that Billy Bones was stopped. Instead I've done – " He swept an unfathomably bitter hand at them underground in the boulder cave, the water licking at their thighs, the gun Jim still had trained on him. "I've done  _this."_

There was enough of a silence to hear the rush of the tide. Jim's finger trembled on the trigger, very close to pulling it, to dispatch this man freely admitting he was as bad as Israel Hands in his way, if not worse. At least Hands made no secret of his indiscriminate destruction, while Long John Silver's was of a more protracted and poisonous and personal sort, slow and baneful, like the waves scouring a sandbank out hollow until it collapsed beneath your feet. He didn't know what to say, how to react. This seemed so absurdly beyond anything he had any right to pass judgment on that he wanted to ask to be recused. But it was him. It was this. It was them.

Jim paused a moment more, then stuck the gun through his waistband, waded through the rush, and grabbed hold of Silver, lifting him toward the opening of the hole. Silver snatched for a slimy root, trying to get enough purchase to pull himself out, as the water was now coming in full-throated and climbing with every second. Then he grappled at the rock as the root broke in his hand, and Jim thought perhaps they would in fact both drown together here, deserved or otherwise. But then Silver clawed out the dirt, pulled himself free and onto the ground overhead, and reached both hands back down into the hole. "Jim.  _Jim!"_

The water level was close to Jim's chin, and he reckoned he only had about another thirty seconds until it was over his head. He gulped a good breath and fumbled for the same handholds Silver had used, boosting himself up in an attempt to grab Silver's arm. There was a look of something close to sheer terror on Silver's face, as if his penitence would be to watch someone else he cared about die in front of him on Skeleton Island, and he leaned in as far as he possibly could, almost losing his balance. Their wet hands slipped and skidded, and Jim was almost dislodged from his precarious grip on the rock by the slap of the water against his back. He had only one more bloody crack at this – again, Geneva in his mind's eye, as when he had shot Hands, Silver saying,  _I believe in her, do you,_ and the ease and unanimity of his answer.

_Aye._

Jim threw his strength into one almighty leap, grabbed hold of Silver's hand, and shot out of the hole like a greased weasel, somersaulting onto mud and sand and rolling. The world was open again, unfurling to every side rather than the confined space of the rocks, and the tide still crashed and boiled hungrily below, clutching up for him. Then Silver hauled him to his feet, both of them looked around madly, and fled up the bank, into the dark jungle beyond.

* * *

Thus far, Samuel Jones' view of the vaunted and mysterious Skeleton Island was mostly fog. It cleared here and there in a few places, revealing the high, steep headlands that bracketed each side of the deep channel they were rowing down, or rather that Billy was rowing down. He pulled the oars with curt, tireless strokes, as if he didn't presumably hit land again, he'd row right out into the Atlantic Ocean and probably across the damn thing to boot. Frankly, Sam would not have minded if he did, only that would mean he was stuck along for the ride. And after all this nonsense, he was not intending to get on a godforsaken sailing ship again for as long as he lived. His family would just have to be disappointed.

Conversation, to say the least, was minimal, there not being a great deal to chat about between oneself and the crazy revenge-bent bloke who had kidnapped you. Sam didn't exactly think that Billy would be brimful of eagerness to fill him in on whichever of his plans this one was, and tried to stare off into the distance haughtily, as if he didn't care anyway. Anything to distract him from the throbbing pain in his arm; it felt as if he had a red-hot poker in place of a bone, no thanks to Lady bloody Fiona and her dagger of heart-eating insanity.  _Better hope I don't have to throw anything at anyone, eh?_ Surreptitiously, he tried to pull the bandage away to see if it was healing at all, and grimaced horribly as the cloth stuck to the gash.  _Yeah, never mind that._

He managed to keep up his mien of more or less dignified silence until they rounded a bend in the channel, and saw a ship on its side in the water – masts cracked and splintered, boards missing from the sides, and the remnants of the sails tattered and bleached and torn. It clearly had been a wreck here for a while, and Sam tried not to look at it too closely, in case there were still bits of its crew scattered around. "What the – " It came out before he could stop it. "Well, that's just bloody charming, isn't it?"

Billy glanced at him with grim amusement. "What, you think people never tried to find the place before, what with all those rumors of incalculable riches? Some of them even made it."

"And then they died, clearly." Sam glanced at the ship's broken mizzen where its colors would have flown, trying to determine if it had been English, Spanish, French, or something else, not that it mattered. "What, is the place called Skeleton Island because it's got an army of the undead defending it?"

Billy snorted, not bothering to dignify that with a response. But after a pause, he said, "I was trapped here for three years. In that time, I saw at least two ships arrive. Intended to go down and beg passage off. Both times, before I even got close, they were already destroyed. I'm not even sure what happened. Nobody comes here and leaves unscathed, or without a terrible price."

"Well, that's just grand," Sam said. "Bloody reassuring. I feel much better about everything now. So what, you came back? Didn't get enough of the place the first time?"

"I didn't come back because I ever wanted to see this fucking shithole again." Billy kept rowing, sculling them past the broken shell of the ship and onward into the channel. "I came back to settle everything it left undone. And you're going to help me do that."

"Bite me," Sam said. "Because I won't."

"We'll see." Billy didn't appear terribly concerned. "Lady Fiona will follow us down here, at least, and she has Gold on board. And don't tell me your family isn't on your tail. They'll all come back one last time, mark my words. And as I said. This place is – well. It'll do the rest."

"Cursed island. Got it. Everyone dies." Sam, despite his flippancy, felt cold sweat beading on the back of his neck. Hard to tell, however, if that was fear, or the fever he was fairly sure he was starting. If his arm got infected… well, he had plenty of other ways he was liable to snuff it, as Billy had made abundantly clear, but that would definitely be one of the most miserable. "Can't accuse you of not being thorough. But on that note, one other question. What happened to Jack?"

Billy's expression flickered, but it was hard to say how. "What about him?"

"Did he…" Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He didn't want to cry, not now, not here, not in front of this big blond bastard.  _"Is_  he dead?"

Billy paused, then shrugged. "Aye."

Sam opened his mouth, then shut it. It felt as if someone had crumpled something cold and sharp and unhappy in his chest, too hard to breathe around or ignore, just hurting and hurting. Tears stung his eyes, and he shook his head, looking back at the distant, fog-shrouded cliffs. All his clever barbs seemed to drain out of him like a leak, and he remained silent as Billy kept rowing. Some time passed in silence, broken only by the cawing of circling seabirds high above. Then they rounded one last bend in the channel and beheld the eye of the skull, the blue hole at the heart of the island, with the water that was hundreds or even thousands of feet deep. And still visible close to the shore, twisted and hollowed, was the shell of a blackened hull that Billy clearly recognized, to judge from the expression on his face. Sam twisted around to look, and felt a chill go bone-deep down his back, "Is that – the  _Walrus?_ Is it?"

"That was the  _Walrus,_ yes," Billy said, after a long pause. "Apparently part of her has managed to remain afloat all these years. Characteristic for the tough old bitch. She did not go down easy."

Sam glanced at him sidelong, wondering if any residual affection for the ship and his friends among the crew might remain for Billy, even given his all-consuming hatred of Flint. But if Billy had gone to the Navy and offered to help Woodes Rogers to kill those friends point-blank, evidently not. Sam stared hard at the mangled wreck instead, trying to imagine it in its glory days as the most feared sight in the Caribbean, Captain Flint and his murderous fiends beneath the dancing skeleton, swarming aboard to reave and raid and pillage and do other pirate sorts of things. That had also involved a lot of shooting, and other less savory activities, but Sam could not help a brief and morbid fascination with this living (well, so to speak) bit of family history. It all mostly felt like stories to him anyway, but it was real. It had happened.

Clearly less enthused by the sight than he was, Billy indeed did his best to act as if it was not there, and in another ten minutes or so, they were riding and bumping up on the empty, eerie beach. Sam sat where he was, not feeling in the least like being cooperative, until Billy barked, "Out of the boat, Jones."

Sam glared at him, then slowly and deliberately got to his feet, the world feeling somewhat farther away than usual. He stepped out of the boat, heard something crunch under his boots, and looked around to see that in regard to this at least, Skeleton Island was well named. This beach was where the battle between Woodes Rogers' redcoats and the crew of the  _Walrus_ had been fought, where the pirates had been shot en masse as they were exposed and defenseless, and it was a literal boneyard. Scraps of decaying fabric clung to yellowing rib cages, grinning skulls polished to a macabre sheen by twenty-five years of tides and scavenging seabirds, bits of vertebrae and other smaller pieces heaped up with the weed wrack and shells and spent musket balls, broken debris washed up from the  _Walrus,_ and other detritus. They must be literally standing on the bodies of Billy's old friends and shipmates, all those men Sam had just been trying to imagine in their heyday.  _Billy Bones among the bones._ Gorge rose sharp and foul up the back of his throat, and he had to swallow hard. Almost none of his grammar school catechism had managed to stick, but he wanted to say some sort of prayer anyway, to get the transparently haunted air of the place off him.  _Cursed_ no longer seemed nearly such a stretch.

For his part, Billy bent over the boat and slung as many of the guns over his shoulders as he could, until he looked more like a small walking armory than a man. When Sam reached for one of the guns himself, Billy made a sharp move to stop him. "No."

"Come on, mate. Look at this place. You're not going to let me have a gun?"

"No."

"I can shoot," Sam said. "I was a soldier in Governor Oglethorpe's army." That seemed ten thousand years ago, and several worlds away. "And if it's not just dead men here – you're expecting them to follow us, remember? Besides, my arm is manky enough, I probably can't actually shoot it. Maybe give someone a smart club over the head, though."

"You think I'd let my prisoner have a weapon?"

"Look," Sam said. "It's clear to both of us that I definitely can't row all that way back. I kill you, there is no way off the island for me. So you can leave me unarmed if you really think one injured kid is that much of a threat to you, or you can let me have a motherfucking pistol."

Billy looked almost impressed for a moment, though that was probably the fever hallucinations. Then he reached in, pulled out something that looked small enough for a lady to hide in her stocking, and tossed it to Sam. "There. Feel better?"

"Not really." Sam tried to think where to stash it. Putting a gun through your belt always felt like an invitation to accidentally shoot off your balls, but there was nowhere else obvious. Finally, he made sure that it was not cocked and slung it at his waist, trying to exude more casual, menacing competence than he remotely possessed. Billy still had about fifty of them anyway, so this toy used for threatening cheats at cards was not any actual danger. "So now what? More hiking?"

Billy grunted in answer and set off across the beach, bones cracking underfoot with every step, as Sam debated the merits of using his single shot to hit him in the arse, just for hollow satisfaction. That would probably get him killed faster, though, and he might need it later. Instead, thinking bitterly that the entire point of human civilization to date had been to get man as far away as possible from nature, and that on the remote chance he survived this, he intended never to be more than ten miles away from a city again, Sam followed him.

They made it into the trees and climbed steadily, following some faint track in the undergrowth that Billy seemed to know – if he had been here for three years, he was most likely familiar with the island's hidden bogs and byways. If he'd had any breath, or actually gave a damn, Sam would have asked how he had escaped, but Billy would probably think that was some cunning trick to work out how to do the same for himself.  _Not that cunning, really._ As Sam had already freely admitted, he had no chance of rowing back out alone with his wounded arm, and if someone (such as his family) did sail down the channel after them, he still needed to get away from Captain Vengeance here and pray that they all got out without something else horrible happening to them. Jesus, this place gave him the creeps. As soon as they were inland enough from the shore to mostly be away from the birds, a choking, preternatural silence fell, barely broken by the usual rustling and croaking from thick jungle underbrush. Presumably there were animals here, or something else that Billy and Grandpa had eaten while they were marooned, but if so, Sam saw no sign of them. The canopy hung thickly to every side, blocking sound and sight. He had wondered at first how you stayed sane here, and then realized quickly that you didn't.

At last, after a long, legs-burning climb, they reached a high point from which they had a fairly good vantage point over the harbor below, their boat looking tiny on the sand and the burnt-out shell of the  _Walrus_ more black and desolate than ever. There was a small waterfall here, which Billy allowed Sam to drink from, and while it tasted faintly of sulfur, it was wet and decently cold, and he gulped it gratefully. "So what?" he said, starting to wipe his mouth with his bad arm, wincing, and using the other one instead. "We wait here until everyone arrives, you shoot at them if they attempt to climb up, and I – what? Provide moral support? Reload your guns?"

"I'd rather not kill you," Billy said, after a slight pause. "But as hostages go, you're useful. Nobody will risk storming my position if there's a chance of killing you, and anyone who does, well, I imagine we both want them dead. I'm not taking any risks this time. I have to see the bodies with my own eyes, before I will believe the job is finished."

"And then what? Piss on their graves?"

Billy paused, then shrugged. "I don't expect to leave this place alive again," he said simply. "For all intents and purposes, I died here anyway, long ago. One or another of your family or Lady Fiona's men or someone else will most likely kill me. But at least I'll know it's over."

"That's bloody pointless," Sam said. "Die so they can die, kill knowing they'll be killed. My mum was friends with you.  _Friends._ You protected her and brought her to Nassau and started her off as a pirate with Flint's crew. You've already admitted you don't terribly want to kill me, and it must be because of her, because it's damn sure not for Grandpa. Couldn't you listen to your better judgment, for the first time in the last what, two decades? You used to be a good man, Billy. Better than most people in that world, by the sounds of things. Now – what, you want to be the worst? You can still make a different choice. I told you back on the  _Titania,_ get me home to my family, and they – "

"And I told you," Billy said, "that Flint was just as likely to kill me anyway for it. That he hasn't forgotten our grudge, and therefore there was no safety or point in me doing the same. Besides, Fiona Murray, Robert Gold, James Flint – they're all terrible people, they're all threats to everyone whose paths they cross, they'll never stop burning and burning until there's only ash. Why is it wrong to dedicate myself to destroying them, if it means the world will be saved from everything else they could do to it? I know you've grown up with Flint, you can't see what he is, but trust me – "

"Actually," Sam said. "I can see just fine. Seen him for most of my life, while you, by your own admission, haven't seen him since your last fight on this island almost a quarter century ago. Could you  _possibly_ admit that sure, Gold and Fiona are bloody mental – not that I'm entirely sure that gives you unlimited license to kill them – but you're mistaken about Flint? That all right, he used to be like that, but he's  _changed?"_

"No." Billy's jaw tightened. "I'm not mistaken about him, and he hasn't changed. And I'm not forgiving him, so don't waste your breath. Sit over there and stop talking."

Sam paused, then spun deliberately on his heel and went to perch on the fallen log indicated. He watched as Billy set up a sniper's nest, stacking bits of leaf and wood and moss to conceal his spot from all sides, lining up the guns regimentally. Sam had a sour, sick feeling in his stomach, only incidental to the continued pain in his arm, the knowledge that his worst fear was likely going to come to pass in front of his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He couldn't exactly physically overpower Billy – he could  _try,_ but that was clearly going to end in abject failure. What else? Shout a warning to anyone trying to get up here? Make a break for it? But where?  _Where?_ Any ship that appeared in the channel was as likely to be an enemy as miraculous salvation, and even if his family did come here, there was almost no chance that they were all leaving alive. The bones scattered on the beach below made that gruesomely clear.

Several hours passed. Billy finished his fortification, scouted out some fruit – a pair of underripe mangos – and tossed one at Sam. It was green and grainy, but he was hungry enough that he ate it anyway, juice dripping off his chin. It had to be going on late afternoon, but the light had remained so uncertain, his sense of direction completely shot to hell, that it was difficult to be sure. It finally started to fade, receding off the tops of the thick-crowded trees, dusk creeping along in its wake, chill enough that Sam hugged himself hard. "No fire, I suppose?"

"No." Billy looked incredulous that he had to ask. "We'll wait, until – "

Just then, the eerie silence was broken by the faint, distant crack of something that had to be – that absolutely was – a gunshot. Where or how far away or in what place exactly, Sam had no idea. But he realized all at once, just as Billy did, that it meant they were not, in fact, alone here. Someone could have sailed up on the other side of the island, or from the south, or from any other approach rather than down the channel, and – Sam didn't have a fucking clue who it was, obviously. It could be Lucifer and a band of ancillary demons up from hell for a lark, at this rate. But it was something, it was a chance, it was  _someone,_ and with that, he made up his mind.

As Billy wheeled toward him, Sam dove for the sniper's nest, grabbed one of the muskets, and swung the butt-end at the older man as hard as he possibly could. Billy had expected him to try to shoot the tiny pistol, and thus he left himself completely off guard for a blow, which cracked against his temple with a horrible splitting, juicy sound. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he went down hard. Nor did he get up. He was out cold.

Sam didn't even think about staying around long enough to finish off an unconscious man. All he wanted was to get out of there. He whirled and ran, battling through the clinging trees, in what he thought was the direction that the shot had come from. His breath punched him in the cut-up chest, and he did not dare look over his shoulder for fear that he would see Billy – or worse – charging after him. He ducked under low-hanging branches, lost his footing on wet rock and plunged headlong, and slid uncontrollably on his arse into a fast-moving stream. The stream, in turn, deposited him over a small waterfall and straight into a crack in the rock beyond, which – as Sam realized as he was falling again – was in fact the entrance to a cave. He flailed, hit the green terror soup below with an almighty splash, and was completely engulfed.

After a wild moment, he surfaced, unable to fight the current and swept along with it toward the mouth of the dark passage beyond. It was clear that he was about to go underwater, with no telling whatsoever when he was going to come up, and he gulped a desperate breath of air as he was dragged under, bumping and banging against solid rock in the pitch darkness and bitterly regretting his decision to hit Billy over the head and run. Just when he thought his lungs were going to burst, however, he shot free and into the sump below, nearly braining himself on a sharp stalactite. He sucked more ragged gasps, bobbing like a cork, with just enough time to recover before the process thereupon repeated again. And again.

Sam was finally washed out into a lower chamber, who knew how far from where he had gone in, with a crack halfway up the wall that indicated a potential spot to climb out. He managed to paddle to the large stalagmite nearby and grab hold of it, letting his legs sway beneath him, eyes stinging from the blood dripping into them from the all-new gashes on his face. He snorted and snuffled, determined not to cry but racked with dry sobs nonetheless, shaken and terrified and completely alone in a cave on a cursed island with a crazy man behind him and doubtless even crazier men ahead. If he panicked now, and completely lost his head, he was done for.

Sam allowed himself a few more moments of muffled sobbing, until he hauled in a rattling, both-lung-gasp of air and did his absolute damndest to pull himself together and think about this logically. Right, he was going to swim over, climb up to that crack, and – oh  _Jesus,_ sweet _Jesus,_ was that a skeleton across the way, staring directly back at him? Mother fucking  _hell._

It was indeed a skeleton, clearly other some poor sap who had wound up in here and not been able to get out. It was tangled up in the vines just across the way, and given that one of the vines was moving, it was almost definitely a snake. This was almost ludicrously terrible, like every nightmare he had ever had mashed up together, and Sam breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, on the hopeful off chance that he would wake up in bed at home. He, however, did not, and remaining in here with Mr. Boney and his slithering friend had abruptly lost whatever meager charm it possessed. Right. He was getting out. Now.

Sam kicked off and managed to make it across the chamber to the slippery flowstone at the far side. The crack was just above him, five or six feet out of reach, and if he jumped for it and missed, he'd probably fall and break his neck. Trying very hard not to speculate unduly about how Mr. Boney had died, he eased out onto the rock, having to grab a stalagmite in order not to slide straight back in again. Maybe he could use a vine, if that wasn't also a snake. The bandage on his arm had torn off during his crash course through the cave passages, and the gash was bleeding again, looking less pleasant than ever. It twinged terribly when he raised it above his head, and he hissed. Once more, he did his best to survey his options in a logical and cohesive fashion, and to ignore the small screaming voice in the back of his head.  _You're trapped. You can't climb out of here. You're trapped._

Deep breath. Deep breath. Someone, anyone else would know what to do here. Not him, not like this, when there was only one thing left to try, and of course, he was not good enough.

Sam sucked in a breath. Then he yelled at the top of his lungs, _"HELP!"_

He could hear it ringing away in the darkening jungle beyond, bouncing off the trees. No sound, no stirring or shouting in return, answered him. He waited a few minutes, then yelled again, with it taking absolutely everything in him not to give in to total despair. Might as well just go back, tie himself up next to Mr. Boney, and wait for the –

It was faint, so faint, that Sam couldn't be sure he'd heard it. But he thought he could discern a crunching sound, like heavy footsteps through bracken, and then it was closer still, and closer. Then something dropped down through the hole: a twisted vine, strong enough to use as a rope, and Sam didn't waste another moment with questions. He grabbed hold of it, ignored the now-screaming pain in his arm, and braced his weight, walking up the wall until he could grab hold of the mouth of the crack and pull himself out onto mercifully solid ground. He lay there, coughing and shaking, until he finally got himself together to look at his rescuer – and recoiled.

The man was gnarled and grizzled, wearing a ragged brown jacket that was spattered with blood on cuffs and sleeves, but that was not the most alarming feature of his appearance. It looked as if someone had tried to shoot him in the head at close range, but the bullet had bounced off his skull and traveled just under his scalp, causing it to bleed a lot but not do any permanent or fatal damage. It definitely had bled. One eye was almost gummed shut, and the other stared out from under craggy brows like a spark in a depthless pit. He had two rifles slung on his back that appeared to be British Army standard-issue, and that, combined with the blood, led Sam to conclude that this insane-looking literal headcase had been murdering redcoats recently. But what the – what the  _fuck –_ Jesus, was this ever going to –

The madman regarded him appraisingly through his one good eye. Then he let out a low, rasping chuckle. "You must be Geneva Jones' brother," he said. "Look just fucking like her. The name's Hands. Israel Hands, at your service."

* * *

The moon was starting to rise by the time they passed under the eaves of the cliffs and bumped against a rocky spit of deserted beach. Jack barely noticed. The whole world felt like a blur. Flint let go of the oars with a muffled curse, and they sat there in silence for several moments, before Jack recollected himself, swung out of the boat, and pointed the gun sharply at Flint when he failed to follow. "Well? Let's get the fuck on with this."

Flint glared at him. "I'm sixty-seven years old, you just punched me three times, and I rowed us all this way with you threatening to shoot me. Forgive me if I'm not racing like a Royal Ascot winner."

"Just don't talk." Jack felt like a dish that had been thrown from a high cupboard, to smash into a thousand little bits on a stone floor. "Get out, lead me to this famous hidden cache of yours, and then we can get this over with. Now!"

Flint paused as insolently long as he dared, then slowly stepped out of the boat as well. "I see," he said. "All this time, and the treasure actually is what you want? I'm surprised. Back to the Spaniards, is that it? At least the ones you're already betraying can't betray you, is that how it works? Or perhaps you feel if you can bring it back to purchase their goodwill, at least somebody actually believes in you?"

"I swear to fucking Jesus I will shoot you." Jack pointed the gun dead between Flint's eyes. "But I'm not interested in wandering all over this island for months or years like you did. So – "

"So if you're going to kill me once I show you where the treasure is, why the fuck do I have any incentive to do that?" Flint folded his arms. "You know, this isn't the first time I've been held at gunpoint on Skeleton Island with someone promising to shoot me if I disobey them, or if I don't agree to martyr myself. I was the terror and the storm last time, but this time, you are. Listen to me, Jack. Listen to me. There are sins you can't take back. If you kill me, you'll lose whatever you do have left. I'm not saying that on my own behalf. I'm old, I've lived my life, and I died here once anyway. Perhaps it was always going to end like this. But Sam won't forgive you."

Jack jerked as if Flint had physically hit him. "Sam doesn't need to know."

"So what?" Flint almost laughed. "Murder me and lie about it to his face, is that your brilliant plan? As if the identity of my killer will somehow be a mystery to my family, after you were last spotted punching me and dragging me overboard at gunpoint? Perhaps you think if you weep and say you are very sorry, they'll soften toward you, if we're such a blind and weak bunch of fools? They won't, and they aren't fools. Do you think you're the only man in the world to want vengeance, or vengeance on the Navy? Do you have a fucking  _clue_ who I am, or who Killian is? Or were you just sticking your fingers in your ears and humming when he was talking to you?"

"Fuck you," Jack said reflexively. "I know, I don't care, it doesn't matter, it – "

"Shut up." Flint took a step, daring Jack to pull the trigger on him. "Shut the fuck up and listen to me. I'm sorry that you were robbed of your vengeance, that your wife lied to you and broke your trust, and you didn't get to look into your father's eyes as you killed him. I am. But this isn't going to solve any of that. I know who you are, I have been you, I have stood in your shoes, I've felt there was no way to go on after losing the man I loved, except by wreaking blood and terror on the world that took him away. But I did.  _I did,_ I found him. One of them, at least."

"Wh – "

"Please," Flint said. "Don't expect me to believe you're not in love with my grandson."

"I… that…" Jack struggled for breath. "That's beside the point, I – "

"Then," Flint said, "you're a fucking idiot, and for better or worse, I don't think you are. So tell me, if you weren't going to hand the cash over to the Spaniards, what  _were_ you going to do with it? Exactly?"

"I…" Jack wrestled the words like a great strangling serpent around his chest. "I was going to give it to Lady Fiona and Billy."

This time Flint did laugh aloud. "Never mind. You  _are_  a fucking idiot. You think it's the  _money_  they want?"

"I don't know," Jack snarled. "I didn't care. I was going to trade it for Sam."

Flint raised both eyebrows so far they were in danger of escaping into his hair. "Oh? But of course, you aren't in love with him?"

"It doesn't matter either way. Buy his freedom, they can have their precious money, I don't give a shit what they do with it. Dump it in the sea, for all I care. That way, we're done, we're square, Sam's life is saved, we can go our separate ways. If they don't want the money, I'll trade them you. Billy wanted me to kill you, did you know that?"

"Really?" Flint said, voice dripping with enough sarcasm to fell an ox. "Couldn't possibly have seen that coming. Let me have a moment to recover from the shock. Why not him?"

"Because," Jack said, not knowing if this would hurt at all, but determined to find out. "Because I'm, as you fucking well know, Sam Bellamy's nephew."

That did – he wasn't sure what, but it was something. Flint went very still, the reaction of a man who had just taken a very serious wound and was trying to avoid letting it on to his opponent, so he wouldn't know at once where else to attack. He turned his face away, struggling for his previous cold glibness, unable to muster a response for several moments. Jack tried to enjoy the fact of a formidable opponent brought to his knees by such a simple sentence, but it just hurt, a dull, constant throb like a diseased tooth. His hand was shaking, so he tried to steady it. Flint must not think for an instant that he was off the (ha) hook.

"I see," Flint said, after close to a minute of that hideous, suffocating silence. His voice was less than steady. "I nearly have to give Billy credit. That's a level of cold bastard to which even I didn't think he could aspire. Yes. The only thing more poetic than killing me was to have Sam's ghost do it. My last punishment, for that and everything."

"I still could." Jack raised the gun, even though his hand was shaking more than ever. "I could do it right here."

"You could," Flint agreed. "And there is certainly an argument to be made for my deserving it. Of all the people that – that he told me I had lost, last time on Skeleton Island, your uncle was, it turned out, the only one that I truly had. I found Thomas and Miranda again, in time. But Sam, no. Sam was gone. The ocean had taken him, and it never gave him back. Until it did, just the other day. Until you emerged from it, and we thought for the briefest, most foolish of moments that we somehow had him back. It transpired, of course, that we did not."

Jack opened his mouth, then shut it. "So? Did you just think that I – "

"Oh for Christ's sake, you fucking bastard!" Flint exploded, finally provoked beyond all endurance. "We  _loved_ him! All of us! We loved your uncle, and yes, like humans, we saw him in you! I've lived for over twenty years with the guilt, the grief, the loss of him, of knowing what I did to him while he was alive and that it was never what I should have, the fear that my wife wished she died to be with him, that it was me that killed him! Killian, Emma, Miranda – they all loved him too, and they were easy with him, they gave him what he deserved, they were soft. I was the hard one, I was the selfish one, I was  _Flint!_ I drove him away, I was the reason he felt that he had to leave us, that he sailed into that tempest in Cape Cod and he never came back! I'm the reason, as I always was, that I lost someone I loved, that I betrayed, and now you stand here and tell me to my face that you want to do the same thing – that moreover, it is to my grandson, who carries that man's name, and his legacy! Fuck you.  _Fuck you!"_

Despite himself, Jack was caught off guard. He wanted to bark back, but all his clever reprisals seemed to have deserted him for the moment. He struggled to steer the confrontation onto any ground he knew, could control, and gestured at the beach. "Is this where the  _Walrus_ wrecked? It doesn't look like it."

"No," Flint said. His eyes were lethal emerald slits, glowing like a cat's in the night. "I took us further down the coast in order to avoid the dangerous passage I was warning everyone about, back on the  _Griffin,_ before you staged your little abduction fancy. This is somewhere southeast of that. So you see, we're not actually near anywhere near the cache. If you're going to shoot me, get it over with, and happy searching. I'm not lifting a fucking finger to help you.  _Fuck_ you. Good thing, in fact, that your uncle is dead. You'd break his goddamn heart."

Jack was about to fire back, as ever, that he didn't care, but the words got caught on his tongue. He knew that likewise, Flint had thrown the gauntlet, that if he didn't kill him right now, it was clear that he wasn't going to, couldn't follow through on his threats. So what – kill him anyway, to prove he was not to be trifled with, that he was capable of this vengeance, that he was not that small and scared and hurt boy, that he was a man? Kill him, and lose everything else?

The silence stretched out, taut and twisted and terrible. Then Jack stalked forward and pressed the barrel of the gun to Flint's chest, staring down his nose at him. "Lead me to the cache," he said, "or I take you back to the  _Griffin_ and shoot you in front of your family, so they don't even have to be in any question at all about it. That's your choice, and unless you want to fail your grandson like you failed his namesake, you can – "

"About that," a voice said from nearby, about a dozen yards down the dark beach. "Put down the gun and turn here. Hands up. The both of you."

Jack and Flint both froze, the tension between them still surging almost at breaking point. Then they turned – and went absolutely motionless.

Some completely mad-looking individual in a bloodstained brown coat, one eye swollen shut, forehead and beard stained with more blood, and grizzled hair pulled back in a ragged topknot, was facing them, lit ghostly by the silver moon. He was holding a large gun in one hand, and Samuel Jones with the other, the former cocked and pointed at the latter's head. Sam's face was white and stunned, staring at Jack and his grandfather locked in preparation for mortal combat, eyes the size of dinner plates as the madman gripped him with gnarled fingers. "You make any sudden moves," the madman went on, "and I will blow his brains out for  _both_ of you to watch, how about that? Couldn't have fixed it better. You'll be Captain fucking Flint in the flesh, just the man I was looking for. Hell  _is_ empty, and all the devils are here. Skeleton Island. No better place for them, wouldn't you say."

Jack and Flint remained frozen. Then, very slowly, Jack backed away and put down the gun, letting the lunatic see him do it. He and Flint, beckoned by another impatient jerk of the head, raised their hands. Sam's eyes kept flicking madly between them, burning with confusion and betrayal and disbelief. "You – " he managed. "Jack, how,  _how_  are you – ?"

"It's a fascinating story," Flint said. "Involves quite a bit of trying to kill me and stabbing the rest of our family in the back, I'll fill you in later. And who would your… friend be?"

"Hands." The lunatic leered. "Israel Hands. Reckon you've heard of me?"

The name meant nothing to Jack, but it clearly did to Flint. His nostrils flared. "That frothing dog Thatch drummed off his crew, once upon a time? Yes, I've heard of you. Too insane for Blackbeard, now that's an accomplishment. How the  _fuck_ are you here?"

"Likewise. Fascinating story." Israel Hands grinned. "Taking it you haven't seen Mr. Silver yet. Oh yes. He's here too. That will be an enjoyable reunion, won't it, if one of you doesn't kill the other first. Now. You're going to lead me to the cache, and any other treasure on this entire fucking island, or I shoot the boy without demur. Is that clear enough for you?"

Flint was rigid from head to heel. He took half a step, then another. Hands grabbed Sam harder, free arm crushing his throat, and Sam uttered a strangled whimper, struggling for air. Then Flint raised his voice and shouted over Hands' shoulder, "Hey!  _HEY!"_

Hands spun to look, and in the split-second of distraction, both Flint and Sam moved. Sam stamped madly on Hands' foot, grabbed his arm and twisted out from his grip, slamming the gun out of his hand, as Flint dove for it, snatched it up, whirled around, and fired, all in one fluid, ruthless motion. The sound of the gunshot echoed across the shore, and Jack thought he should move, should do something, but he was paralyzed, transfixed. For a wild, terrible moment, he thought Flint had hit Sam. Then Israel Hands touched the spreading wet stain in his chest, looked confused, and toppled face-first into the sand.

Flint didn't stop moving. He grabbed Jack's fallen gun, aimed it, and shot Hands again, this time in the back of the head, so his skull exploded in a brief, grisly shower of brain and bone. He twitched, gargled something indecipherable, and went limp, blood pulsing in slow, shallow ripples across the sand, dark as ink in the moonlight. Smoke rose in gentle curls from the barrel of the pistol, still clutched in Flint's hand as he pointed it. Nothing else seemed to breathe.

Sam, finally, was the one to break the spell. He hurtled across the beach and flung himself into his grandfather's arms, and Flint hugged him tightly, still staring balefully at Hands as if expecting him to get up and keep fighting. He didn't, given as he was quite thoroughly dead. Finally, Sam let go, but just enough to clutch Flint by the forearms and stare at him. "How – the others, are they – look, it's a trap, over by the bay, Billy's set up a nest, I don't – "

"We're going to sort it out," Flint said grimly. "We're going to sort out everything. Come on. Someone will have heard that."

As they bent to retrieve the two rifles that had been slung over Hands' back, Jack took a convulsive step. "Sam."

Sam paused, straightened up, and stared at Jack as if he had never properly seen him before. There was a hot, strange look in his eye, an oddly restrained fury, when he spoke. "Billy said you were dead."

"Aye, well, Billy lied, didn't he?" Jack likewise wanted to be out of here. "I – "

"So were you on the  _Titania_  the whole time?" Sam, just for a moment, looked very much as his grandfather had when shouting at Jack earlier. "I thought if you were alive, if you had the choice, if you were able to at all, you'd come back. Billy said you would too. So what? You – you actually listened to Lady Fiona? And earlier – what was – was  _that_ the plan? Billy told you to kill Grandpa and then he'd – I don't know, tell you whatever you wanted to know about Howe? As long as you stayed out of sight and let me think you were dead?"

"No," Jack said, feebly, instinctively. "No, Sam, that wasn't – "

Sam kept staring at him with that fixed, glassy expression, more than slightly feverish, and altogether furious. Finally he said disbelievingly, "You lied to me."

"Sam. Sam, listen to – "

"Tell me," Sam said, low and hot and terrible,  _"the truth."_

Jack felt a sudden and terrible realization pass over him: that he had done to Sam exactly what Charlotte had done to him, that he had betrayed his confidence and his trust in the service of his own revenge, and let him think the worst, never bothering to correct his suffering and his misapprehension, so long as it was useful. He took another step, desperate. "Sam!"

Sam raised the rifle he was holding. "I don't think I want you to come with us."

"Believe me," Flint said, "you don't. Leave him here – if it's true what Hands was on about and Silver is also on the island, I'm sure they have a use for each other. Sam, come with me, I'll get you off this godforsaken hellhole somehow. Your mum and dad are here, they've been looking for you. The whole family has. You're almost home."

Sam did not need telling twice. He scuttled straight to his grandfather's side, and Flint put a protective arm around him, drawing him close, with one final, burning look at Jack warning him that he followed at his peril. Jack could not have moved anyway. He stood there, Israel Hands' corpse still sprawled at his feet, watched them go, and only heard, in his head, the screaming.


	26. XXVI

It took several minutes after Jack and Flint's thunderclap of a disappearance for anyone to get up the wherewithal to move. Emma felt as if she was holding Miranda up, and even Matthew appeared to have nothing to say on this abrupt and spectacular public destruction by his personal nemesis. Killian looked anguished, and Charlotte had collapsed on the hatch cover, face in her hands, as Liam glanced around for something to do, some action to take, to somehow, possibly make this better. It was finally Regina who spoke. "Well, that was a disaster."

"True, but… not helpful." Emma turned anxiously to Miranda. "Are you – you should lie down, that – I'm sorry, you should never have had to – "

"I'm – " Miranda raised both hands, shaking, and tried to smooth her hair out of her face, striving vainly for her usual poise. "I know – I  _knew_ he wasn't – he isn't Sam, and he wasn't even terribly fond of us – I don't know what I thought I was – or that he was – "

"No, don't you dare blame yourself for this." Emma helped her sit, keeping a protective arm over her shoulders. "This is not your fault, it is  _not_ your fault. Killian, Charlotte, what… what was that?"

Charlotte didn't answer, still looking completely stricken, until Matthew moved over and offered her his handkerchief. Charlotte took it without a word, wringing it as if she wished it had a neck to break, as Killian struggled to face up to the task of explanation. "It's too long a story for right now, love, and I don't want to put her through it again. I'll take the blame for what just happened, though. Charlotte told me something in confidence, and I broke that confidence, for reasons of my own. I'm sorry. Miranda, I'm sorry."

"No," Charlotte said, speaking for the first time, though she remained grey-faced. "This is my fault, this is all my fault. I should have told him right away. I should never have kept it from him. But I was… we were two frightened, angry children clinging together and running from the world, I couldn't believe he'd stay with me if I did. As long as he thought he had it outstanding, he'd stay, he'd help, he…." She trailed off, lost in misery. "And now I've ruined everything. You brought me along, and I… I've torn your family apart too."

"Flint won't go down without a fight," Liam said, clearly trying to be comforting. "Not after what we saw him do earlier. They might brawl it out, and slap each other around a bit, but not do any permanent damage. I… well, I hope so, at least."

"Lady Fiona and Gold are still out here somewhere as well," Regina pointed out, with her usual ruthless pragmatism. "I'm sorry for that whole incident, but we can't sit holding each other's hands and braiding each other's hair. We need to think about what we're doing next."

At that, Emma thought she could rather understand why Regina and Liam, who otherwise might have driven each other crazy as two extremely strong-willed, stubborn people who always had to be in charge and were completely prepared to do anything it took to get their way, had managed to stay married almost as long as her and Killian. Between the two of them, Liam was slightly more emotionally deft, but they both had the same fixation on action and results, on moving situations forward even through the dark of emotional despair, and that was what their family needed right now. The fallout and the reparations would have to wait for later, when they had the luxury of it, and Emma squeezed Miranda's hand, then stood up. "Fine. What  _are_  we doing?"

"I presumed we were following them," Matthew said. "I am cognizant of the danger, as Mr. Flint warned us before his… departure, but if the  _Titania_ is down there, with Lord Robert and your son aboard, surely it is a worthwhile risk to take?"

"We'd have to be careful," Emma said. "As Flint said, the approach is tricky. We sailed the  _Walrus_ in here, and your, ah, your father sailed the  _Queen Anne's Revenge_ after us, both of them were about the  _Griffin's_ size. But that is a large target if someone is waiting, there isn't much room to miss, and it would be a long way in or out, in range most of the time. Do we have another boat? I know Jack stole the first one, but – "

"We do," Matthew said, "but rowing will take much longer, and it would be beyond inadvisable to sail in bereft of all our guns. If the  _Titania_ has her cannon trained on us, we will be fools in a bobbing bathtub, ready to be blown out of the water. If it comes to a contest of firepower, I feel confident in our ability to perform."

"That's what she said, eh?" Killian remarked, startling everyone. When they turned to stare at him, he shrugged, the tips of his ears going pink. "Just trying to break the tension."

Matthew harrumphed.  _"Therefore,_ " he went on, "if you think it wise, Mrs. Jones, you should guide us in. We're still running dark, and an inexperienced helmsman with no knowledge of the approach could easily get us into difficulty on the shoals. Someone please also see to Mrs. Flint and Mrs. Bell, use my cabin if you please. The rest of you, load the guns."

"Captain," the gunner said, the one whom Jack had stolen the pistol from. "Captain, Mrs. Bell just confessed to murdering a Navy officer – Captain Howe, she said she killed him. We should put her in the brig, begging your pardons, and prepare her for a trial when we – "

"I said, take her to my cabin. You, however, are more than welcome to enjoy the delights of the brig, if you gainsay my orders." Matthew raised his voice. "I also said,  _load the guns!"_

There was a final pause, and then the  _Griffin's_ crew scuttled off to their posts without further delay, as Killian went to help Miranda and Charlotte to their feet, one on either arm, and escort them to Matthew's cabin. Emma's hair was blowing in the night wind, so she quickly knotted it back out of her face, then went to the helm, taking hold of it and eyeing up the rig of the sheets. She tersely requested Liam to serve as deck officer, and Regina went to see how many pistols and muskets there were in the armory; they would have to land at some point, and nobody felt it wise to do so without numerous weapons at hand. She began to carry them up to the extra longboat, ordering several intimidated-looking young seamen to help her, and Emma took a deep breath, aimed the  _Griffin's_ prow at the dark passage, and started in.

The steep headlands rose quickly to either side, turning the night into inky, eerily silent jungle. There was only a faint strip of stars overhead, and with the lanterns doused, it was difficult to make out how much clearance they had, or where the  _Griffin_ ended and the water began. Emma had not personally sailed this before, as while she had been aboard the  _Walrus_ when it came here, her old crewman Macintosh had been the helmsman, not her. Macintosh had later been shot and killed capturing Woodes Rogers off the deck of the  _Revenge,_ and Emma felt a pang of wondering what had happened to Merida, the only other woman on her crew, who had been Macintosh's lover. And, for that matter, Will Scarlet, her ever-loyal first mate. He had been badly injured in Charlestown during Liam and Jennings' final fight, shot and almost killed, and while he had managed to survive the voyage to France, he had decided (for understandable reasons) not to return to the Americas. Liam and Regina assured him that he had more than earned the right to stay, that he was freed from his oath, and Emma liked to think of Will married and settled down with four or five children, entertaining them with hair-raising tall tales of his pirate days. She missed him, suddenly. She missed all of them, the ghosts that hung in the very fabric of this place, whispering alongside the vessel.

Emma shook her head, trying to clear it.  _Odysseus and the sirens._ She looked out across the dark water, as if half-expecting to see Will and Merida and the others flickering just out of sight, the tricks and the deceptions the ocean could pull on you, especially in somewhere like this. She kept hearing faint splashes, though she didn't think there were any seals or dolphins. Just the ever-present enticement for a sailor to come to the railing, lean too far to look, fall over, and drown.

 _Don't be ridiculous._ Emma took a harder grip on the wheel. She thought there was something ahead, however, something too big and dark to be an animal and in the wrong place to be land, and pulled them hard to port as she realized in the next instant that it was a wrecked ship, lying on its side and blocking the channel.  _That was not here last time._ It seemed to serve as proof that the world  _had_  gone looking for Skeleton Island and its fabled, fabulous riches, a prize to justify any number of risks, and the world, at least in this case, had not returned.

Emma heard a scrape as some underwater part of the wreck grazed up against the  _Griffin's_ timbers, and had to fight the brief and horrible conviction that something had stirred in the derelict shell, watching them from the water as they passed. She was not prone to superstition or spooky stories, even if such things were a mariner's stock in trade, but it was taking a special effort to keep sailing down here in the dead of night. But she had to. If the  _Titania_ was down here, then so was Sam, and Emma was fully prepared to blast her way through Lady Fiona, Gold, Billy, and any number of unnatural monstrosities if it meant getting back to him. She just had to keep her eyes straight ahead, like every legend where the hero was instructed on pain of death not to look back, or lose their loved one and their quest.  _Only forward. Only forward._ Her breathing sounded loud in her ears.  _I can do this. I have to._

Still nothing, no sound, no sight in front of them, or behind them. They were far enough down the passage by now that the sound of the sea had been cut off, and a curious void of sound drummed against Emma's ears. She could not shake the idea that if she looked down, she would not see the sturdy boards of the  _Griffin,_ but a yawning abyss. Her hands were damp with cold sweat, and her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage.  _Only forward._ A scream was building up in her head, but she locked her teeth, did not let it out, did not let it out.  _Only –_

Just then, a hand caught hers, nearly making her scream for real, and she jerked her head up with a strangled hiss to see Killian, looking concerned. "Emma, love? Are you – ?"

"I'm…" Emma shuddered. "I'm sorry. It's just this place. It… doesn't want us here."

"It's a bloody eerie arsehole of the world, for sure." Killian stepped up next to her. "Let me take over. I know I haven't been here before, but if you're struggling – "

"No, I can do it." Emma hesitated again, then changed her mind. "All right. We can do it."

She stepped aside to make room for him, and they took hold of the wheel together, Killian on starboard and Emma on port, keeping the  _Griffin_ on course. With him beside her, it was harder for the baneful influence of the darkness to get through, catching up against him as a shield somehow, and she hoped she did the same for him. It wasn't gone altogether, but it was muted, like a soft, distant rush she could more or less ignore, and finally, they rounded the last bend in the channel and emerged into the eye of the skull. She would have said empty, but it wasn't quite. Something burned-out and tilted, just recognizable as the gutted hull of a ship, was run aground close to shore, and she felt it like a lightning bolt down her spine. "Jesus. I think that's – I think that's the  _Walrus."_

Killian followed her indicating finger, and his eyes widened. "Looks like it. Just what we need, then? The vengeful ghosts of Flint's entire crew, lurking in wait for us?"

It sounded as if he had meant it as another attempt to leaven the mood, but trailed off into genuine foreboding halfway through. Emma glanced up at him.  _"Do_ you believe in ghosts?"

"I'm a sailor, and I'm Irish," Killian said. "Haven't lived there since I was a lad, but it leaves its mark on you. There were plenty of educated, responsible, socially productive folk, who read papers of science and scoffed at the provincial customs of the rural bumpkins, who still wouldn't walk through faerie circles if their lives depended on it, or came in white-faced from a winter night, convinced that something had followed them home. Everyone knew a tale of someone who had disturbed the milk for the leprechauns, or knocked over the standing stone on the road, and had unending bad fortune since. It's the bone and sinew of the country. And I've seen some things I can't easily explain. At sea, and that time on the Maroons' island, as I told you, when they saved Liam. My mother spoke to me through Tiana, and she died when I was five. I went down into some sort of vision, and when we woke up, Liam was… Liam was alive. I've always held that you shouldn't meddle with anything, or call its name, if you don't want it to come. If it's a joke, if you don't believe it, you're doubly foolish. And aye, I feel that places remember what has been done in them, and that some of them are very thin between the world and whatever lies beyond. If you're not careful, you'll lose your way."

Another shiver went down Emma's back. "What do you do, to ward off a ghost?"

"Pissing on the doorposts was the usual remedy," Killian said wryly. "As that's not an option here, I can make do. The church and the folk wisdom had different views as to what was best, but as I don't have the blood of a black rooster, I suppose the Pope wins this round. So – "

He crossed himself, muttered something in Gaelic under his breath, and dipped up a ladleful from the rain barrel as improvised holy water, flicking it in the direction of the  _Walrus._ "There. A prayer for their souls to be at rest, and to not trouble us instead. Not sure how much good it does against the rest of this island, but there you have it. Christ, you couldn't pay me to stay a single night here. How the hell did Flint manage a year?"

"I think you had to be as close to death as he was," Emma said quietly. "So far beyond caring about anything or anyone, shattered and adrift, halfway into the grave already. You wouldn't notice the ghosts, not if you were one yourself. They'd almost be company."

Killian looked back at her, opened his mouth, and then shut it, as they turned back to the forbidding prospect of the shore. There was a rowboat pulled up on the beach, and Emma's heart briefly lurched, but she could see almost at once that it wasn't the one Jack had stolen from the  _Griffin._ "Look," she said, pointing. "Someone else is here."

"Someone rowed that channel? Impressive." Killian frowned, thinking hard. "It can't have been Gold, and I don't think Lady Fiona could manage it either. It could be one of her men, but – "

They paused, and then it hit in the same moment. They turned to each other and said in grim unison, "Billy."

"Aye," Killian said, frown deepening. "I think so. By the looks of things, he stole a boat off the  _Titania_ and snuck onto Skeleton Island. But why would he do that – and for that matter, where's the  _Titania?_ We didn't pass another ship coming in, so she could have tracked north or south and tried another approach. Be difficult to cross the interior, but… there's another eye of the skull, isn't there? How easy would it be to get between them on foot?"

"I don't know," Emma said. "That's the kind of question Flint could answer."

"And we've just so happened to lose Flint," Killian remarked, with morbid humor. "Maybe there's a path, some kind of trail that leads from one to the other. Maybe they mixed up which eye the treasure was supposed to be in, and will be retracing their route to get to this one. But something's still bothering me. Why would Billy go alone? I doubt he knows where the treasure actually is, or if he wants it anyway. If he did, he could have just returned here by himself long ago and taken it. This is about revenge. Which means – "

"Which means he likely didn't go alone," Emma said slowly. "And Lady Fiona wouldn't care if he took Gold, because she'd expect him to kill him anyway. It's not likely her either, because why bother sneaking off her own ship? But if Billy is trying to protect himself against anyone who might come after him, until he was finished with what he was – "

Yet again, the answer and the name came to them at once. This time, it was with something close to panic that they said together, "Sam."

"He has Sam." Emma gripped the railing, consumed by a desperate impulse to shout for her son then and there. "He must have taken Sam off the  _Titania_ and sneaked them down here. They might be holed up somewhere inland, or – I don't know, but we need to get ashore. Now."

"It's still dark," Killian pointed out. "We can't go foraging in the jungle, in  _this_ jungle, at night. Sunrise should be a few hours away, we can launch the other boat then. I don't think Billy would be moving around at night either, even if he knows the place well. But – "

"At least we'd have cover in the darkness," Emma said. "If he spotted a ship entering the bay, he could already be tipped off to our presence. He could be moving to hide Sam somewhere else, or something worse. We have to risk it. We have to!"

Killian looked as if this was going against every single one of his instincts – that it was tantamount to walking through faerie circles, spilling leprechaun milk, knocking over standing stones, and leaving doorposts un-pissed upon all at once. Yet no matter what, his love for his son was stronger, and it was only another moment until he nodded. "Fine. But I'd rather not have half of us on the  _Griffin_ and half of us ashore. I'm not saying I don't trust Matthew, not entirely. But those could easily turn into hostages, especially if he or one of his men feels like pressing a grievance over Howe's death. Either way, we'd be safer together."

"I don't want to drag Miranda across the island," Emma said anxiously. "We could – "

"We could what?" a voice said behind them, and they turned with a considerable start to see that Miranda had emerged from Matthew's cabin, wrapped in her shawl, her brown-silver curls loose and spilling down her back. Her face was pale as death, but her eyes were fierce and burning. "I am not sitting on this ship by myself while the rest of you go to hunt whatever monsters await us. I need to find James, and I need to find Jack. I will manage whatever I have to."

"Miranda, you – " Emma struggled with the fact that for as much as the family had tried to shield her, Miranda's insistence on facing the same peril as the rest of them had just about killed her before. "This place, it's – "

"Dangerous?" Miranda laughed, dry as a bone. "The realm of ghosts? I have more than enough of those, you know. Somehow I think they will be no surprise or disquiet to me."

Emma glanced at Killian, though she knew he had already voiced his opinion that come what may, they should stay together. After a moment he said, "If you want to come with us, if you want to see what James lived here… well, I suppose you have that right. The others – "

"Don't be thick," a second voice said. Liam, having overheard the conversation from further down the deck, strode up to join them, Regina at his side. "Of course we're coming."

"So am I." Charlotte had followed Miranda out of the cabin, and while her eyes were still red, her jaw was set. "This was my mistake. I have to make it right."

Emma looked at the lot of them standing there stoutly, professing no hesitation whatsoever about going into a haunted island and putting themselves at risk of anything that might be waiting. All for her sake, and for Killian, and their family, the one that all of them shared and cherished, despite its imperfections and rough places and disasters. It was that family out there now, somewhere in the wilderness, and that and the darkness alike must be faced and overcome. "I – " she began, and had to stop. "Thank you. I'll go find Matthew."

With that, she moved off to the captain, who was standing on the quarterdeck, staring at the dark island. He jumped when she put a hand on his arm, and turned. "Yes, Mrs. Jones?"

"We want to go ashore with the other boat," Emma said. "We don't expect you to come with us, or even wait for us, but we plan to go. You can possibly – are you all right?"

"Yes." Matthew's eyes flicked back toward the impervious trees. "Quite all right. I'm sorry. I've just – this will sound rather queer, I'm sure that the lack of sleep can explain it. But I keep having the oddest notion that I hear crying. Do you?"

"No," Emma said. "But I've heard other things. This – isn't necessarily a friendly place. We should be careful."

"If you – " Matthew started, then stopped, turning his head again. A frown furrowed his sandy brows. "I'm sorry. I swear I've just – never mind."

"What?"

"I thought just then that I heard my mother. She sounded – " Matthew seemed annoyed at himself for repeating such superstitious hogwash, and gave his head a hard shake, as if trying to get water out of his ear. "I just – I thought I heard her calling for me."

"It's not your mother," Emma said. "As I said. You don't have to come with us."

Matthew looked insulted. "Are you imputing that I am a coward, Mrs. Jones? As you will recall, my purpose in coming here was to retrieve Lord Robert, and as that is not done, I do not intend to hide under the bed like a child. Be ready to debark in half a bell."

Emma nodded, then went to tell the others. They changed into clothes suitable for tramping about the jungle (it was extremely odd to see Miranda in breeches), and collected their jackets, boots, weapons, and anything else that seemed useful, though she had a moment of wondering how effective any gun or sword could be. Then again, Billy at least was out there, possibly others, and they certainly were not going unarmed. Matthew met them at the longboat with half a dozen of his crew, and he politely offered Miranda, Charlotte, and Emma a hand up. One of the men opened his mouth at seeing the several pistols slung on Charlotte's bandolier, as well as the ladies in gentlemen's clothing, caught Matthew's searing sidelong look, and immediately thought better of whatever he had been about to say.

Matthew spoke in a low voice to the purser, who customarily had command of a vessel while the captain was ashore, apparently leaving him instructions as to what to do in the event of an attack. Then he climbed into the boat after them, and signaled for the hoist. They bumped and creaked down the  _Griffin's_ side, hit the water with a splash, and the Navy men hefted the oars and started to scull across the eerie dark mirror. The stars were still out, though the moon had buried its horns in cloud, and a thin, cold wind scoured their faces as they drew closer. Emma kept looking anxiously up at the wall of jungle. Nothing moved anywhere, nothing stirred, nothing seemed to breathe. _Oh God, Sam, where are you?_

They reached the beach a few minutes later and stepped out of the boat, just as the moon broke out from behind the clouds and illuminated the ghostly bone-white fragments that lay scattered thick on the sand. One of the Navy men muttered a horrified curse, and Killian was not the only one to cross himself at the full sight of their long-dead companions. Even Matthew seemed briefly startled, staring at them. Then he blurted out, "These are them? The  _Walrus_ men?"

"Most likely." Emma didn't feel it necessarily to add, as Flint surely would, that it was Matthew's father who had killed them. "Most of them were shot on the shore, defenseless."

"You were – you were here, weren't you." Matthew glanced at her, almost tentatively. "During that battle."

"Yes," Emma said simply. "I was. But only on the deck of a ship, I've never actually set foot on the island before. I don't know the interior. James does, but…"

Another brief silence as they all examined the dark trees. Matthew seemed to be resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, as if he was unable to entirely shake whatever he kept hearing. Then he turned to Charlotte. "Do you have any idea what your intemperate husband might have done upon landing in this place with a prisoner, especially one of Mr. Flint's importance? Attempted to prevail on him to lead him to the treasure cache, or simply shot him outright?"

A shiver passed through everyone at these words, and Charlotte's lips went white again. Then she shook her head. "I don't think Jack killed Flint. If he wanted that, he would have done it back on the ship. He could want the money, it's possible. But since Flint is the one who knows the island, he could have led Jack into a trap, as retaliation for kidnapping him. Or Billy could have shot them both, if, as you said, that's his boat. I don't know."

"We should find the way to the other eye," Liam suggested. "The  _Titania_ is most likely there, and I'd not bloody mind getting to grips with Lady Fiona again. As well, since that would be the most trouble for us on the way out, if we can neutralize her as a threat – "

"Sam isn't on the  _Titania,_ " Emma said. "Sam is in there, somewhere. And I can't help but feel that it's dangerous to split up."

"Aye, but too many of us attracts notice. And we need to do more than one thing." Liam looked stubborn, or in short as Liam customarily did. "Matthew and the men can scout for the  _Titania,_ myself and Regina can go with them. The rest of you look for Sam, Billy, Flint, and Jack."

"I'd like to get my hands around Lady Fiona's elegant white throat," Regina agreed. "That plan makes sense to me. I don't believe in ghosts, anyway."

Liam looked as if he was about to say something, then thought better of it. It was tersely voted on and agreed to; Matthew, the  _Griffin_ men, Liam, and Regina would try to find the path to the other eye of the skull, and Killian, Emma, Miranda, and Charlotte would continue the search for their missing family members. At this, Emma could not help but feel that the four of them alone was a tall wager, and Matthew agreed to lend her two of his men. The darkness was starting to turn grey, which meant that morning was on its way, and there was no more delaying it. It was time to go in.

The two groups glanced at each other, as if in attempted casualness. Killian and Liam clapped each other on the shoulder, and Matthew cleared his throat. "If you find your runaways," he said, "return to the  _Griffin_ and await me. I will rejoin you there, with or without Lord Robert."

Killian winced. "You'd bring him back, eh? With us?"

"Aye," Matthew said. "If we should find him alive. You will want to get going, Mr. Jones. Good luck."

Killian looked at him for a moment. Then he reached out his hand, as did Matthew, and they shook briefly. Matthew next offered his hand to Emma, and she meant to shake it as well, but somehow she found herself pulling him into a quick, clumsy, one-armed hug. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For everything you did to get us here."

"I…" Matthew coughed again, putting a hand on her shoulder as if to untangle her from any more discommoding displays of affection, and she wondered how much, if ever, he had been hugged as a child. "I, ah, you're welcome, Mrs. Jones. I suppose it did not go altogether as terribly as it might have, even if I doubt I'd ever be in any haste to repeat it and I lost my dignity, my port anchor, a longboat, a fair amount of the ship to cannonfire, and both my lieutenants, along with God knows what else. But as I said. Return to the  _Griffin,_ and we will sail out together _._ Men, Mr. and Mrs. Jones the elder, let's be on our way."

Liam and Regina started after him, along with the four sailors, and Emma watched them go, tramping across the beach in the rough direction that the other eye should lie. Watched until the jungle had closed over them, hiding them from view, and then turned to Killian, Miranda, Charlotte, and the two remaining  _Griffin_ men. "All right," she said, just above a whisper, as the faintest grey shadows scattered on the bones at their feet. "Time to go."

* * *

It was well past dark when Jim decided that they had to stop. He had in mind Silver's warnings about blundering around the island at night, and they had already almost killed themselves at least once, with a ten-foot plunge off a broken turf bank. They were extremely lucky that it had not been any more of a fall, but Jim's ankle was hurting every time he put weight on it, and he did not want to see what might be in store for round two. He and Silver were both limping badly by the time they found an overhanging rock veiled in thick moss and – at least so far as Jim could tell – nothing fanged or poisonous or otherwise unfriendly skulking in its depths. They pushed aside the moss and sat down, trying to catch their breath and avoid meeting each other's eyes. This was difficult in a small space, so Jim took the gun from his belt and tried to see if the powder was dry after its thorough drenching earlier. He might still have to shoot someone – Silver or otherwise – and did not want to be caught unprepared.

After half a glance at him seemed to confirm that they were staying here for the time being, Silver reached down and unbuckled the straps of his peg leg, easing it off the stump with a pained grimace. There wasn't enough light for Jim to be sure, but he thought there were dark stains on Silver's trousers, where the brace had worn abrasions into the flesh after such long and rough use. He grimaced as well despite himself, as their trek had been hard enough on him even with two good legs, and wondered if he was up to investigating how badly he might have sprained his ankle. Right pair of invalids, the both of them. Maybe they could hop away quickly if Gideon's men found them here, like drunks on the lam from the constable.

"Fire?" Jim asked at last, even the soft word sounding loud in the stillness. "Or do you think that would draw attention?"

"It might." Silver answered in a deliberately cool, casual voice, as if determined to keep them on the business of formalities and survival. "But the moss provides some good cover, and frankly, I don't know if I want to spend a night in this place without one. Which obliges me to ask, with the most impeccable of all imaginable ironies, if you have a pair of flints."

Jim's mouth quirked. "I can find something, yes."

"Good." Silver glanced around for any kindling they could pile up, or dry wood to burn. Jim located the stones, and even managed to strike a spark, but it took him several tries to get enough of a flame to sustain itself. He blew on it, coaxing it, as Silver watched him, the glow catching on the gauntness of his face. At last, when it was burning steadily, Silver said, "Well done."

"I think I can manage a fire." Jim sat back, stretching his legs. This caused another jolt of pain to shoot up his ankle, so he pulled off his boot and the sweat-drenched stocking to inspect it. He'd definitely given it a good wrench, and the flesh felt red and tender, but at least he didn't think it was broken. If he found some leaves to bind it up, he should be able to get along. Any more running for his life might be a dicey proposition, however.

Jim pulled off the other boot, got a drink from the small spring that bubbled under the rock, and had the brief impression that something had scurried past outside the moss, most likely a small animal. Which would be nice if they were to have anything to eat, as he didn't want to venture far in search of food. In the meantime, however, they had at least several more hours stuck together, and he had questions. Not that he thought Silver was in any mood to answer them, but that was too bad. After Jim had limped back to his log and sat down, he said, "So all those terrible tales of what you had done here, and all you did was… leave Flint behind? I have to admit, I was expecting something considerably more dramatic."

"I'm sorry to disappoint, in that case." Silver's voice was bitter. "And it is rare that the wild stories approximate the truth. Let me guess, you grew up reading Charles Johnson's  _A General History of the Pyrates_ and all the other pulp fiction about the dread outlaws of Nassau, the monsters in human flesh. In some places it has its facts straight, but the rest is a muddled stew of rumor, exaggeration, and outright fabrication. I betrayed and left to die a man who, no matter his personal flaws and failings, and the danger he posed to the rest of us, I cared for very much, whose mind and mine were rarely matched when put together, and upon whose ship I found home, family, power, and meaning. Is that not bad enough, or do you wish a list of all my worst deeds to compare? Still more, I did it to his face by using every single weakness he had confessed to me, however grudgingly, and in effect, traded his life for my own. Sometimes empires do not fall by the Goths tearing down the gates of Rome and spectacularly sacking it. Sometimes they fall between two men, with nothing but words, in the wilderness."

"I'm…" Jim paused. "I'm sorry. I just… I know I don't understand it, believe me. But I think that's also why you're telling me. I'm not tied into it the way someone else – like Geneva – might be. I'm distant enough to be safe, more or less."

Silver did not answer immediately. "She asked me," he said at last. "She asked me several times, directly, what happened here. Do you think I could have looked her in the eye, after everything I had done to coerce her and Thomas on this voyage, and told her that story, then asked her to continue trusting me in even the slightest part? Told her that I left her grandfather for dead, even and especially after he had taken me into his confidence? I know enough of what I am and what I do. I would have been unable to give her any good reason to the contrary. So yes. I kept it from her. If you wish to judge me for that, you may."

It was Jim's turn to be momentarily taken off guard. "But you did tell me about our fathers," he said instead. "Why?"

"Because I did not want you to go into the hold. I didn't know it was Hands down there, but I knew it was dangerous. There was nothing else I could think of that was sure to get your attention, and…" Silver blew out a breath, looking pained, as if all this honest and frank discussion of his motives and emotions was giving him a stomachache. "You and Geneva – you clearly liked each other. I thought you had the right to know, before it went any further."

"So your idea of romantic help was to throw that little tidbit on the fire." Jim almost felt sorry for the man, despite himself. "Bloody splendid. But all of us – the Jones and Silver and Hawkins families, we're all from Bristol, we've all sprung from the same root. There's more to it, isn't there? Between you and Killian Jones. More than just you being pirates at the same time."

Silver appeared impressed by this deduction. "Yes. Killian and his brother Liam, the one you met, were owned as slaves by my father, when they were boys. I told Geneva that story on the way out. Liam arranged to have my father and his crew drowned in return for their freedom. That was many years ago. No, I did not mourn him. I had run away before it happened, anyway. Killian held a grudge against me for not taking them along. So yes, I've long been in the habit of selling others out, or leaving them behind, in order to save myself."

Jim took that in, mulling over how deeply and painfully the three families were in fact connected, just as he had only started to realize. "So they joined the Navy," he said. "Met  _my_  father, and served with him. Until Killian Jones killed him this time, not Liam."

"Aye. I suppose there's a twisted symmetry to it." Silver pulled his thick black-grey curls out of his face and knotted them with a leather thong. "Especially with you and Geneva now meeting each other, and me. The first conjunction of the three of us, Hawkins and Jones and Silver, that has managed not to end with death, at least not yet. There is still time."

Jim glanced at the moss, once more having the feeling that something had passed close outside, and less sure that it was an animal. He started to get to his feet. "Perhaps I should – "

"I wouldn't," Silver said. "Whatever is out there, the fire should keep it away, and everyone has heard the tales of the nights on which you should not look out your window. Sit back down. It's a while yet until dawn."

Jim was not entirely certain what this meant, but it seemed ominous, to say the least. After a pause, he did as ordered. "So we still think Geneva will catch up to us?"

"I see no reason to doubt it." Silver leaned back with his hands behind his head, ostensibly casual, but Jim could see him looking at the moss as well. "If we can stay out of reach of the redcoats for, I don't know, a day or so, we should be able to – "

Just then, somewhere in the distance, they heard the faint echo of a gunshot, followed mere moments later by another one. Both of them snapped upright, listening hard as that was seriously alarming for more reasons than just the obvious. Gideon's men were very unlikely to be shooting at each other unless they had completely lost their heads, and since Jim had killed Hands (or  _had_ he? He could not repress a sudden and terrifying pang of doubt) there was, technically speaking, no one else left to be shooting at. At least from the  _Hispaniola._ If newcomers had arrived, and then – if  _Geneva_ had arrived, and then –

At that moment, no matter the threat of spooks or skeletons or soldiers or whatever else, Jim was very close to getting up and running out into the night, bad ankle and all. In fact, the only thing that stopped him from doing it was the fact that it hadn't been a cannon. If Geneva  _was_ here, she was not likely to be stinting on firepower, especially if she hadn't spotted Silver on deck and had concluded that the two of them were not aboard the  _Hispaniola,_ thus rendering it conveniently free to be blasted with maximum effort. That, however, had just been a rifle or a pistol. But who the hell was shooting at each other in the darkness, in this already terrifying-enough place?

"Should we snuff the fire?" Jim asked, keeping his voice low. "In case they come this way?"

Silver hesitated, then nodded, leaning forward to scuff some dirt over the small, struggling flames and plunging them abruptly into complete blackness. Jim thought of what he had said earlier, about how the fire would keep away whatever was outside, and almost wanted to ask him to light it again, but reminded himself that that was stupid. Nonetheless, it did not stop him from clutching the gun very tightly, and not sure that he would not scream in an embarrassingly high register if something suddenly came through the moss. He cocked his head, straining, but he couldn't hear anything. The wind was blowing away from them. Just then, he couldn't even be entirely sure that he had heard the gunshots. At least Silver also had, but –

As much as they listened, there weren't any more distinct sounds, though Jim did catch a brief moment of what sounded like far-off footsteps, tramping through heavy brush. It did not seem to be coming in their direction, however, and after it had been silent for some minutes, Silver muttered, "I think we can re-light the fire."

Jim nodded, fumbling for the flintstones, though it took him much longer this time to keep a spark lit long enough to catch. When it finally did, after mysteriously blowing out without any wind at least three times, he sat back and shook his head. "I'm starting to think that there can't possibly be any treasure in this place that's worth having to stay here for long."

Silver grunted, gaze fixed on the flames. "I suppose that depends on your definition of treasure."

Jim went to the back of the overhang again and collected some large leaves, which were the closest thing he could think of to wrap up his ankle. He certainly hoped that they would not give him some exotic rash, tropical botany not being his specialty, but indeed, given the  _rest_ of this place and the ways in which it was likely to kill them, this was low on the list. He tied it up, slid back on the stocking and boot, then got up to test it with an exploratory hobble. It held well enough, and with that, he felt the realization that he had not slept properly in God knew how long starting to surge over him. He sat back down, cracked his jaw with a yawn, and tried to hide it.

Silver, however, noticed. "I, ah," he said, and coughed. "If you'll trust me to do it, I'll keep watch. You should get some rest."

Jim wasn't sure if he did or not, but the fact remained that Silver, a one-legged man who had more or less admitted that he thought there were some sort of monsters on this island, would not get very far, even if he did try to run. And if they were agreed on their decision to put their faith in Geneva, well, that was trusting her more than trusting Silver, and he could use his wits about him. "All right," he said, passing the gun over. "Wake me at once if there's trouble."

Silver glanced at him, then nodded. He settled with his back against the log, gun in his lap as he stared at the moss, and Jim lay down on the softest bit of earth he could find, hoping he wouldn't roll over into the fire; he couldn't bring himself to put it out for a second time. He wondered if he would even sleep, in fact, but he was completely bloody exhausted, and dropped under almost before he had closed his eyes.

His dreams were strange and unsettling, like walking forever down a dark passage and always thinking he glimpsed light just at the end, but it slipped away before he could get to it. Geneva was there as well, and his mother, and some faceless figure who might have been his father, but no matter how hard Jim tried, he couldn't get to him, or break down the wall between them. He kept trying to pull it apart stone by stone, but it always rose higher again. Then his father's face turned into Silver's, and then Silver was gone and it was Israel Hands hunting him in the darkness, step by deliberate step, blood dripping from the bullet hole in his head. Jim was trying to run, but his legs were stuck in mud, and it was Silver holding the gun on him and whispering about betraying a man he cared for, and he tried to protest this was a terrible misunderstanding, he wasn't Flint, he  _wasn't._ Yet that did not seem to matter, and some gun fired, and he fell for a long time down some strange black chasm and woke up with a jerk.

Jim lay where he was for several moments, breathing hard and staring up at the vine-draped underside of the rock. The light was grey, the fire was ash, and he could hear a morning racket of birds outside, which seemed like the first normal thing to happen in this damn place yet. Across the way, Silver was drowsing, chin on his chest and hand on the gun, but nothing had eaten them or stormed their hideout or otherwise caused mischief during the night, and Jim felt somewhat better, disturbing dreams aside. He crawled to the back for another drink of water, and began to stretch out the kinks, which made Silver stir. "Jim?"

"Aye, it's me." Jim sat back on his heels. "Well, it's morning. We've survived one day. Do you think we should keep moving?"

"Given as I want to know who or what was shooting last night, and I would like something to eat at some point, yes." Silver sat up, tangling leaves and bracken out of his hair and reaching for his peg leg, fashioning an improvised cushion for the stump with bits torn off his jacket. Jim could imagine it would not be comfortable to put back on with it already chafed to bleeding yesterday, and he watched as Silver did up the straps and buckles with cool, practiced ease. They didn't have anything to carry drinking water in, but there were plenty of streams on the island, so they shouldn't lack for that, at least. When he was done, Silver hauled himself upright with a muttered,  _"Fuck._ " Then he said louder, "All right, I'm ready."

Jim nodded, then held out his hand. "I'll have the gun back, please."

Silver could momentarily be observed trying to decide if it was worth arguing, and concluding that it wasn't. He gave the gun over, and Jim stuck it in his waistband, walking normally, if a bit gingerly, to the moss and shoving it aside. The air was lukewarm and muggy, and the entire jungle was awash in morning fog as thick and white as sheep's wool. At this rate, they'd have to be careful about their steps anyway, but it was better than the darkness. They did their best to ascertain whichever direction they had not come from last night, and started to trudge.

As they walked, Jim kept a sharp eye out for anything that might be edible, though he instinctively mistrusted everything he saw; what if it looked appetizing precisely to dupe some passing fool into taking a bite of it? They went up as much as possible, which seemed safer than down, at least in regard to hiding from redcoats. Silver found a broken branch to use as a crutch, which improved his time somewhat, and Jim took the lead, careful where he put his feet. If there was some sort of deadly viper lurking in the underbrush, he did not want to take an injudicious step and be bitten for his trouble. Neither of them really knew where they were going, except deeper into the island. Jim wondered if it would be too much to hope that they just happened to stumble over a treasure chest sticking out of the dirt, and decided that it probably was.

They had been hiking for a few hours when they spotted a plantain bush, almost ripe. Jim picked them a banana each, they smashed the tough hide open, and more or less inhaled it, as it was nearly the most delicious meal he'd ever had in his life. Since there were coconuts in a nearby grove, Jim climbed up to grab some, bored them open with a rock, and they drank the thin, sweet milk. Then, feeling somewhat more human, they continued onward, clambering carefully across the top of a waterfall, which plunged twenty or thirty feet in a frothing cascade to a rock-strewn pool at the bottom. On the far side, Jim waited for Silver to catch up, and then – almost muffled by the noise of the falls – thought for certain that he heard voices, not far ahead.

He put a finger to his lips, signaling Silver, who was wiping the spray off his face with the back of his arm. Silver listened hard, and must have caught a fragment of it as well, as his eyes went narrow. It would be difficult for him to sneak quietly through the underbrush, and he turned to Jim. "You want to go on and see who that is? You have the gun to boot. I'll wait here."

Jim wasn't sure he wanted his first look at whoever else was here to be completely on his lonesome, but at least he would be innocuous enough, while almost anyone would recognize Silver immediately. "Don't go anywhere," he whispered, as if that was terribly likely. "I'll be back in a minute."

Silver nodded once, and Jim started through the tangled scrub, keeping as low as possible. Aye, it was definitely voices. Soldiers? Possibly, but he couldn't be sure, and it didn't sound like any of the redcoats from the  _Hispaniola_ who had come ashore with them. Some of Geneva's crewmen, who had managed to land in total secrecy and get this far inland in a few hours? Much as Jim hoped so, that also didn't seem likely. He took a better grip on his pistol, and pushed aside a dense curtain of foliage, looking down into the clearing below. It was a man. He turned, and –

A wrenching shock went through Jim from head to toe. He tried to think it was some sort of mad coincidence, that Silver's story had made him see something that wasn't there, but that face had been plastered on enough posters and broadsheets and other sensational bill-papers that Jim recognized it at once. It was older and mostly white-haired and weathered, and it didn't wear the cutting sneer with which all the artists of the wanted posters had made sure to equip their version of Captain James Flint, but still. He was standing with sleeves rolled up and a rifle slung on his back, considering the thicket in front of him, and he had a hostage. A skinny, gangly black-haired young man about nineteen or twenty, who looked to be nursing a bad gash on his arm, was slumped sullenly on a rock, clearly and utterly over this entire nonsense. Jim knew it was pointless to ask but… how on  _earth_ had Flint gotten here, and who the hell had he kidnapped?

For his part, Flint looked significantly battered, as if he had been involved in more than one fistfight recently, and he moved slowly as he paced a circuit of the trees. Jim tried to think what he was supposed to do – go back and warn Silver, as he had a feeling that this would be a nasty reunion to be surprised with out of the blue, or try to rescue the boy? He looked almost familiar, though Jim was sure that they had never met. Not that they needed another tagalong on this demented adventure of theirs, but Jim also couldn't quite in good conscience turn and go. He drew a deep breath, slid down out of the trees, and raised his pistol. "Oy. You there. Hey!"

Flint whirled around with impressively catlike reflexes, even for a man with bruised ribs who had to be close to seventy, and had the rifle cocked and ready in an instant. When he realized Jim was just one man and not an army, he lowered it an inch, but no more. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Who's that?" Jim indicated the black-haired lad. "What are you doing with him?"

"That's my grandson, you idiot." Flint gestured sharply to the boy. "Sam, get behind me."

Still holding his wounded arm against his chest like a broken wing, the boy sped to do exactly that, as Jim suddenly realized why he must look so familiar. "Grandson – wait. Are you Geneva Jones' brother?"

The boy's jaw dropped. "Wh – how do you know Geneva?"

"Long story." Jim decided that it would make a very poor impression to shoot her grandfather and little brother, as these apparently were, and let Flint see him lower the gun. "But I sailed with her from Bristol, on the  _Rose._ We were – as I said, long story. We're here on the island now, we're hoping she can catch up."

Flint considered him very narrowly. "You sailed with her on the  _Rose_? Do you know a Thomas Hamilton, then? Is he all right?"

"Yes, he's her uncle. He's – he's fine, he's safe, we got him back to her."

Flint's entire body shuddered with a barely restrained breath of relief, as if the whole world had depended on that answer, and Jim eyed him curiously. But there were other important questions to be asked, and not much time to do it. He was just about to think how to start, when Flint snapped, "So then. Who exactly is  _we?_ You and – someone else?"

"It…" Jim wasn't sure this was wise to let slip, but he also couldn't think of a plausible lie at short notice. "I'm told the two of you used to know each other, yes."

Flint reared back like a cobra, while Sam looked perplexed. There was a very hideous pause. Then Flint growled, "Is he  _here?"_

"He… not here, he's just…" Jim trailed off under the withering green gaze being drilled through him. "Well, he's Gideon Murray and his redcoats had us captive on their ship, the  _Hispaniola,_ and we escaped. Israel Hands was with us, but I – "

"Israel  _Hands?"_ Flint looked even more displeased. "I shot him last night."

"What? You couldn't have, I shot him."

"Then," Flint said, "you did a piss-poor job of it, given as he was still walking around and causing more than enough trouble when I did it. And Gideon Murray is here too? Fuck, I knew we hadn't seen the last of that double-dealing little cretin. Where is he? I need to kill him too."

Jim blinked. "I don't know. That is sort of the bloody point, we're hiding from him. Somewhere on the island, though we heard a pair of gunshots last night – "

"Once again," Flint said, "that was me, killing Israel Hands as you failed to, unless there was some other cause for murder that we missed. Oh, and there's a – " He glanced at Sam, almost awkwardly, then back at Jim. "There's one Jack Bellamy somewhere at large as well. He's to be considered a liability, if you cross paths with him. What do you know about my granddaughter and the  _Rose?_ Was she supposed to be here? If we can get word to the rest of the family – "

"Rest of the family?"

"Yes, we sailed here with Matthew bloody Rogers. My wife, daughter, son-in-law, and his brother and wife, along with Jack's wife – not sure how he ever got anyone to marry him, but there you have it. The whole lot, looking to rescue my grandson here. Which I did, incidentally. As I said, if you can let them know about Geneva – "

"I…" Jim hesitated. It seemed exceedingly delicate to bring up Silver again, and he had a feeling that Flint was purposefully trying to distract him from it, get him sent off to reconnoiter with Geneva's parents before he could think twice about leaving Silver behind in the jungle. While there was certainly more than a little poetic irony in that, and while he of course wanted to get word to the senior generation, he still could not immediately agree to it. "Perhaps I should – "

"You should what?" Flint raised the rifle again, which he had never entirely lowered. "You had some other suggestion for what you could most usefully be doing?"

Jim did his best not to blink, or take a step backward, even as he was wondering why, exactly, John Silver had tortured himself with guilt for over twenty years for leaving this cranky ginger bastard stuck up the arsehole of a haunted island. "Not exactly."

"Then you'll be off, won't you?"

Jim raised his hands, as if to remind Flint that he for one had put away his gun, and tried to think if he could climb back up into the trees, or at least circle around, in an attempt to fill Silver in on this before he went anywhere. But just then, Flint's face went shocked, then furious, then studiously and completely blank, gaze fixed over Jim's shoulder, and Jim knew at once who he must be seeing. Silver must have thought better of letting him go ahead alone, decided to sneak up and look, and –

Nobody said a word for a very, very long, and very, very horrible moment. Flint put out an arm to keep Sam behind him, though Sam hadn't moved; the expression on his face was completely lost. He was finally the one to break the silence. "Grandpa, what the hell is going on?"

Turning his head a fraction, Jim saw Silver look briefly punched in the stomach by the word "grandpa." Flint could have regrouped and taken a shot at him, which, Jim thought, Silver might not even have bothered to duck, but neither of them moved. Very slowly, Silver raised his hands. "Captain," he said at last, hoarse and strangled-sounding. "It's… been a long time."

Flint's teeth visibly ground together, but for once, he was completely at a loss for a sharp retort. He divided a betrayed look between Jim and Silver, as if they had been in cahoots to force this reckoning, until Jim supposed it was lucky that he _had_ mentioned Silver's presence before, even indirectly, as otherwise Flint might have killed him on the spot. A muscle was working in Flint's cheek, but he still did not appear to have anything to say. Then at last he said jerkily, "If you've come to kill me again, at least permit me to get my grandson to safety first."

"Is that – " At last, apparently, Sam Jones twigged on. "Is that Long John Silver?"

"I am, yes," Silver said politely. "And you would be Geneva's brother."

"Why does  _everyone_ keep saying that?" Sam demanded. "I am more than just that, you know!"

"My apologies," Silver said, still formally. "You two do look alike. I know your sister, that's all. We've traveled together. She might be coming to – "

"If you're thinking to trade on however you've smarmed up to my granddaughter," Flint said, "you can fucking forget it. Did the exact same thing to her that you did to me, no doubt – or at least you tried. Jenny's too smart to fall for you."

"Indeed," Silver agreed, as if Flint had just made an observation on the weather. "She has never come around to me, not entirely, and I have never expected that she would. In your peregrinations, have you happened to stumble across our old friend, Billy Bones?"

"He's here," Sam said. "He kidnapped me off the  _Titania,_ I hit him over the head and escaped yesterday, then got caught by some lunatic named Hands. Grandpa – Grandpa rescued me and killed him, and we were trying to get to – " He stopped. "Anyway, yes, he is."

"That is good to know." Silver had not yet let his tone waver, or show any inflection apart from mild interest. "So I wagered correctly. He was coming here."

"Aye, with a whole host of trouble behind him," Flint snarled. "Fiona Murray and Robert Gold and others with rather familiar faces of old enemies. You got a ride with Gideon, I heard?"

"Gideon Murray is not my friend." For once, Silver's voice roughened slightly. He took a step, then stopped short as Flint pointed the rifle at him. "He came across us and the  _Rose_  at sea. He held myself, Thomas, and Madi hostage on his ship, to force me to navigate him here. Jim and Geneva helped rescue Thomas and Madi, but in the process, Jim was taken prisoner alongside me. We have no more cause to love him than you."

Flint shook his head, a slight, sardonic smile on his lips. "Still talking, aren't you? Always talking. I'd almost imagine no time had passed at all. I don't even care if it's the truth, at least not much. Tell me, what did Thomas make of you?"

Silver hesitated. Then he said, "Why ask, if you feel that my words are only wind? Why ask if you do not believe me, or if you do not care? Decry my truth in one breath and ask for it in the next? I do not blame you for your anger. I understand it, I know what I did to you, I  _know._ I have thought for years and years what I would say if we ever came face to face again, and yet, I confess, I cannot remember any of it. At one point, at many, there was an apology. I see no point or purpose to it now. What I did goes far beyond any trite atonement, or anything you would believe. All I want is this. Why do you still want to know what Thomas thought of me?"

"Don't fucking play games with me." Flint's eyes burned green fire. "Don't taunt and tease and pull it out, dangling one lure and then another. I will not bite."

"I'm not taunting." Silver's knuckles went white on his crutch. "God damn you, I am  _asking,_ as plainly as I have ever asked for anything in my life. I do not want to presume that you understood why I did what I did, and believe me, I have suffered, I have  _suffered_ for it. Is that what you want, for me to strip myself bare before you and lay out each one of my wounds? Do you want to go back to the start, when I was the charming trickster who could not cook a pig, and you hated the very sight and sound of me? We cannot, James. We cannot. Though it would surprise me not in the least if somehow the wretched damaged pair of us wanted to try."

Flint opened and shut his mouth. Jim and Sam caught each other's eyes awkwardly, as if they felt that they should not be listening in on this, but that if they walked away, Flint and Silver would immediately try to kill each other. They carefully did not say anything as the captain and the quartermaster of the  _Walrus_ stared at each other without speaking, the air wound to the point of explosion. Then Flint growled, "Fuck you."

"That's always what you said, when you could not think of a better answer." The corner of Silver's mouth lifted, very sadly. "For your information, I like Thomas. Respect him. I remain unsure of what he feels for me in return, apart from the wariness in which he understandably holds me, and his suspicion of my intentions with Geneva. But there was a moment with us aboard the  _Hispaniola,_ where he said that he had not been there for you when you fell into the darkness. He knew it was not his fault, that indeed he was the cause of it, and yet the guilt still troubled him. Then he said that he understood why I had done what I had, during the mutiny of the  _Rose._ Ask him or your granddaughter, they will be more than willing to tell you. He said that in seeing me, in that moment of Long John Silver, he finally grasped the depths of just what Flint must have been to you, the weight of it, and it broke his heart for both of us. Thomas Hamilton is good far beyond what you and I can fathom or feel in any part worthy, as we both know. He said that he wished he could take it away from us, as if that man deserves any more suffering, and yet he asks to bear it. I never told him what I did to you on this island, but I think he knows, or at least he has guessed the broad strokes. He never asked me to tell him. He never asked that. And never once blamed me for it, either, even when he most justly could have. That is what Thomas thought of me. And that is no reflection on whether or not I deserve it, but on him."

Flint's face was very still, except for his eyes, which showed a strange and shattering anguish. His hands clenched convulsively on the rifle, as if he was trying to convince himself to shoot, and yet could not, could not possibly. As if he let up even the smallest bit, he would break, and he was determined not to. Not when so much hung on this, with the lot of them lost on Skeleton Island with his grandson's safety at stake, and holding himself together to finish the fight, one last time. He struggled for an unsteady breath, gulping for it as if surfacing for air after a dive of a hundred feet and a hundred years. The silence remained.

"James." Silver's voice was soft and utterly heartbroken. "I'm sorry. For everything."

Flint didn't answer. For a moment, he looked as if he was the one struggling to stay on his feet, and Sam put a concerned hand under his grandfather's elbow. For his part, Jim wondered if either Flint or Silver had ever imagined it, that this time it would be Flint holding Silver at gunpoint and all their past tragedies once more replayed, but in the service of a clumsy, years-too-late, attempted truce, rather than complete and categorical destruction. As if they had battled to a standstill in absentia, in those decades after the betrayal and the very different tracks their lives had taken, Flint's to happiness and family and Silver's to grief and solitude. As if they had both thought of continuing the fight to some imagined end, but now discovered that it had long since passed, and left them with no certainty how to go forward, if it was even possible. And just then, as he watched them look at each other, Jim finally understood why the seemingly simple action of leaving Flint behind on Skeleton Island had ruined Silver so much. As if they had been two strange halves of one dysfunctional but dependent creature, which had torn itself deliberately to pieces, and Silver felt that he had not only betrayed Flint, but his entire life and home on the  _Walrus,_ the only place his existence had truly mattered, had consequences. That of course he had never had a family or a settled place in the world after that, because he had destroyed it all when he did, and never allowed himself to weep a single tear.

Still the silence went on. Then at last, slowly, Flint lowered the rifle. His face looked hollowed and wrecked and older even than it was, but cleansed somehow as well. He took a step, and perhaps he might have reached out, offered his hand. Bridged the chasm, started anew, done for once the one thing that James Flint never had, and forgiven. Perhaps.

For that, then, was when they heard the gunshot.

* * *

Well after the  _Hispaniola_ had begun to recede from sight on the horizon, smaller and then smaller until it was barely distinguishable among the black sea, and then it was gone altogether, Geneva stayed at the helm of the  _Rose,_ not least since she was more than half convinced if she let go for a moment, someone else would try to fucking steal it from her. The next part was because she would likely smash up everything in frustration if she went below, and the rest was because her stomach twisted into knots every time she recalled the sight of Jim's unconscious body being hauled up the  _Hispaniola_ like a fish on a line, Hands leering at her, and Gideon daring her that she wouldn't want to leave him behind.  _No, you son of a bitch, I don't._ If it was up to Geneva, she would have run straight down the bastards' throats and opened fire, Lord Governor of Charlestown or not, but she knew (much as she hated it) that Thomas was right. If they were going to try something like this, they had to be very careful.

 _Careful_ was the last thing Geneva was feeling, but she did her best to bridle it, biting down hard. This was a badly risky gambit anyway, since she of course did not know the exact location of Skeleton Island, and leave it to Silver to vanish without bothering to actually tell her. But she did, much as she tried to ignore it, have a grain of genuine concern for his fate, if not matching what she felt for Jim's.  _That's because Jim's been useful, helpful, kind, and not tried to charge me for it first._ She paused.  _And all right, fine, I would rather like to kiss him again._

Geneva took another look at the horizon, but it was definitely empty. This moment of lull and solitude and silence, after the chaos of the voyage from Bristol, Hands' attack, the mutiny, the dramatic arrival of the  _Hispaniola_ , and the rescue attempt and Jim's capture, felt almost surreal, the  _Rose_ alone in the ocean with only a thin red slit of dawn behind them in the east. She rubbed her eyes with both hands, and tried to muster herself up for another go at the wheel, until she felt a light hand on her back. "My dear, you've been up here for hours."

"I know." Geneva glanced up at her uncle, who looked to have been passing just as sleepless a vigil below. "I have to figure this out, I have to get us to Skeleton Island, I have to – "

"You're dead on your feet," Thomas said firmly. "Let Mr. MacSweeney take over. I daresay some fresh air will do him good, as well as prevent our remaining drink stores from being completely evaporated. Madi has agreed to watch him closely and wake you at any irregularity."

Geneva grunted, as she still did not trust her impromptu ally to any great degree, and a  _third_ attempted coup would just be too much. If nothing else, however, MacSweeney and the Irish Jacobite redcoats did want the treasure, which would keep them on course at least until they reached the island. After that, she had no bloody idea anyway, so perhaps that was as far as they needed to remain in cohort. Still, this did not make her more enthusiastic about relinquishing effective control to the man who had just knocked out his last commanding officer, especially since MacSweeney whiffed strongly of rum when he strode topside. "We're still goin', then?"

"Yes," Geneva said coldly. "You let Israel Hands out of the brig, so you have some making up to do. How much have you drunk, exactly?"

"Only enough to steer straight, lassie." MacSweeney tipped her a wink, which was evidently supposed to be charming. Geneva did not consider it charming. "You've good casks aboard."

"I'm glad to know you've been helping yourself to our cargo. I'll overlook it this once as a goodwill offering, but next time you will remember to ask permission. Before I go below, please walk a straight line?"

MacSweeney paused, shrugged, and then did so, with no more than slight wavering. She supposed that he would be good at holding his liquor, and it was true that she was seeing double with exhaustion, but she hesitated a moment longer before she finally nodded. "Very well. Madi Scott will… be observing your progress. If you feel in need of further refreshment, the rain barrel is over there. I suggest sticking your head in first."

"Ah, lass." MacSweeney shook his head, looking doleful. "You'll take the drink from me, and it my only comfort after losin' my wife and bairns in the fire?"

Geneva blinked. "I – what? I'm – I'm sorry about your family, but – "

"There, now, I'm just feckin' with you. As you order, Cap'n." MacSweeney snapped off an only somewhat cockeyed salute and took over the wheel. "MacSweeney on the job."

This was one of the less comforting things that Geneva had ever heard, but Thomas gave her arm a tug, and she felt almost completely disconnected from her feet as she crossed to the cabin. Sprawled facefirst on the davenport, didn't even bother to undress, and collapsed into almost paramount unconsciousness.

She slept so deeply that she did not dream at all, like some princess cursed by a witch in a fairy tale, and was only roused from her stupor some indeterminate time later by Thomas shaking her gently. "Jenny? Jenny, wake up. Wake up."

"Wha?" Geneva muttered, face mashed to the cushion with sweat and drool. Bloody hell, maybe it was a good thing Jim wasn't here. "MacSweeney crash us into a sandbar?"

"No, he's presently trying to teach the crew Gaelic sea shanties." Thomas tipped his head at the door, beyond which must be the source of the tuneless bellowing that belatedly penetrated Geneva's head like a blunt nail. "I found something in your surgical kit."

"Eh?" Geneva managed to unstick her cheek and try to sit up. "Whasit?"

"These." Thomas handed her a small scroll of paper. "Aboard the  _Hispaniola,_ Silver told me I should take a dose of aniseed, and I thought he was making some rather indelicate comment about the state of my bowels, but just now, it occurred to me that he might have been trying to tell me something without tipping off the redcoats. So I checked the bottle, and it had been emptied, and this put in." He unrolled the paper. "Look. Coordinates, and a skull and crossbones at the top. He knew we might fall behind, and he's left us the bearings for Skeleton Island."

"What?" Geneva sat bolt upright, sleepiness evaporated, as she snatched the paper from Thomas, double-checked the scribbled latitude and longitude, and then marched over to her desk to do a few quick calculations with compass and chart. Indeed, it worked out almost exactly to where she had triangulated the island's approximate position, and she stared down at it, heart pounding fast and dry in her mouth. Then she glanced over at Eleanor, who had also stirred from a restless sleep at Thomas' discovery. "Did you see him leave this? Silver?"

Eleanor paused, then shook her head. Her face was the color of bad milk, and her lips were going blue. "I don't know. I don't remember. I – can I have more… more laudanum?"

"We're out," Geneva said tersely. "We have powdered willow bark for pain, or whisky. If MacSweeney hasn't already drunk it all, that is."

"Whisky," Eleanor said, without hesitation. "Please."

Geneva got up, fetched the bottle from her private stash, and poured Eleanor a dram, which she took with shaking fingers. Looking at her, it was hard to imagine that she would last more than a few days, a week if she was particularly stubborn or the gangrene particularly slow, and a sweet-stinking scent was already emanating from the bandages. When she had handed the coordinates to Thomas and told him to take them on deck, Geneva shut the door behind him, thinking of his story on the first night Eleanor had been shot, of how when he was working as a surgeon's assistant on the plantation, he had given Alexander MacKenzie a clean death, the death he wanted, by taking the bandages off and letting him bleed out, holding his hand. It would take more than that for this, and Geneva did not particularly want to do it, but if it was her in this position, she would want someone to give her the choice. Quietly she said, "Do you want me to… if it's dying like this or quickly, do… do you want me to get it over with?"

Eleanor stared at her. "What?"

"I can…" Geneva rubbed her eyes, voice trembling. "Death by gangrene is a slow and brutal way to go. If we don't find a surgeon for you in time, I could… I'm a good shot."

At that, Eleanor realized what she was offering, and her jaw dropped. "What? Shoot me again?  _Kill_ me? After everything you've done to save me?"

"We can both see you're not likely to recover," Geneva said doggedly. "I just wanted you to know that if you wanted to put an end to your suffering, I'm… willing to help."

Eleanor paused, then shook her head. "No. I'm not going to die, I  _will_ not die, at least until I see my son. And he'll have a surgeon on the  _Griffin._ I refuse to go out like that, cowardly, with a whimper. Thank you for the offer," she added, belatedly. "But no. I intend to survive."

Geneva couldn't help but be impressed by this absolutely single-minded stubbornness and will to live at any cost, and she also was more than a little relieved that Eleanor had rejected her. "All right then. If you still think you can make it, we'll… we'll see what happens."

"I wish I'd had a daughter," Eleanor said abruptly. "As well as my son, that is. I wanted a girl, I always did. Perhaps I would have made her too much like me – " she laughed, with unfathomable bitterness – "too stubborn, too wild, too selfish. I conceived twice after Matthew, but I lost both pregnancies early in my term. Stress, and anger, and my husband being mocked in the streets, and him finally no longer able to bear the sight of me, the reminder of what had been…" She trailed off. "I don't know if either of those were daughters. I wish they were. I wish they had lived, I would have had someone, anyone else, rather than just loneliness. Sometimes I still think I should have run away with Max, and then none of this might ever have happened."

Geneva reached down to fluff Eleanor's pillow. Finally she said, "You knew… you knew Max? The same one on Nassau, Madi's business partner?"

"Aye." Eleanor smiled, faintly and raggedly. "Knew her well. We were lovers, for a while. She told me we should run away together. I wanted to. I wanted to, so much. But I've always chosen my ambition, my success, my survival. It's come at… well, as you can imagine, great cost. But if I ever did have a daughter, I wish… I would have been very happy if she was like you."

Once again, that caught Geneva off guard, and twisted deeper into her heart than she ever would have believed. She started to say something, stopped, and then sat down and offered her hand, which Eleanor clutched with both of her own, tears starting to well up and spill in silent earnest. Still, as ever, she was too stubborn to make a sound, to break down completely, but her shoulders shook, head bent, as Geneva, not terribly steady herself, used the sheet to dab at Eleanor's face. Finally, a shout from outside caught her attention, and she whispered, "I should go."

"I know." Eleanor gulped a breath, trying to get control of herself. "You… you're like your mother, you know. Emma. I imagine she's very proud of you."

"I…" All Geneva had ever wanted was to hear that she was like her mother, that she was as strong as Emma Swan Jones, as brave, as resilient, as kind. She still didn't know if it was true, but this meant an oddly good deal. She swallowed hard. "Thank you."

With that, she put Eleanor's feverish hand on the bedclothes, wiped her own face on her sleeve, and went out on deck to hear the news. It was late afternoon, though the weather remained grey and murky and the sun was barred behind an anvil of clouds. But a half mile or so ahead of them, a rugged, mountainous, green-clad island rose steeply out of the sea, high ground veiled in drifting fog. "There," MacSweeney said, with considerable satisfaction. "Bearings were true. Skeleton Island, lass. Do I get a kiss for it?"

"You get no such thing," Geneva informed him. "But you can have an extra finger of rum –  _one_ extra finger of rum – which I suspect you will appreciate the more. I'll speak to you and the others shortly, but you may retire, Mr. MacSweeney. Thank you."

He grinned at her crookedly, with somewhat less of his obnoxious bravado, and headed off. Geneva took the wheel for the final approach, eyes peeled for any hint of the  _Hispaniola;_ this wasn't  _quite_ the right time for a shootout, especially in unfamiliar waters and without knowing the whereabouts of Silver and Jim. But she couldn't see another ship, and wasn't sure from what direction they were coming in – northeast, southeast, or due east, or if they might have hooked around altogether. The ocean was rough and white, breaking in a way that meant there was a barrier reef somewhere close to the surface, and Geneva had to be very careful if she did not want to discover it by crashing the  _Rose's_ hull against it. She spotted the most likely gap in the bank, aimed them for it, and slid through, into a broad lagoon of somewhat calmer water. The rocky tailings of the headland spread out to either side, and the jungle seemed to rise almost vertically from the shore.  _So we're here._

Geneva called for a sounding, and the crew kept marking off fathoms as they ran in, until they were in shallow water of less than twenty feet. The  _Rose_ had a draft of about nine, so this was the closest they could safely take her, and Geneva ordered the anchors dropped. They were a few dozen yards out from the beach, almost swimmable if need be, but first she had to decide what they were doing. They had to scout at least, and see if they spotted any other visitors, or the  _Hispaniola_ itself. The island wasn't terribly large, but it would still take at least a few hours to circumnavigate, and no use sailing into any awaited ambush.

After a final look, Geneva went below to relay her conclusions. Thomas, MacSweeney, and a few of the men, both from the Jacobites and the ragged remnants of her crew, volunteered to go ashore with her as an expeditionary party, but they didn't have much daylight left, and would have to be quick about it if they were going to return to the  _Rose_ before nightfall. Geneva suggested that they could pitch a bivouac on shore if needed, as that seemed more efficient to her than going out and turning back quickly, but she saw the sort of looks among the Irishmen that meant that for some reason, they didn't much care for the plan. "What?"

"Nothing, lass," MacSweeney said. "Only we've heard the place is filled to the brim with haints, and we'll surely brave a few o' those to grab the treasure, but we'd prefer to do it by daylight."

"Really?" Geneva raised both eyebrows. "A bunch of strapping lads like you, scared of a few spooky campfire stories? I'm surprised, and also, I'm not frightened of them. I'll go alone if you'd prefer to clutch your pearls back here."

"You are  _not_ going alone," Thomas said. "I'll accompany you."

"Well then, we can't sit behind, can we?" MacSweeney raised a carrot-colored eyebrow. "Not if we've come this far. I don't think this is a good idea, but – "

"Well then, it's a good thing I'm the captain and you're not." Geneva rose to her feet. "I want us ashore before sunset, and we'll consider our options from there. Go get ready."

Everyone paused, then nodded, stood up, and dispersed to arm themselves (and doubtless put by a few more stashes of drink for the nerves). Geneva herself went below to Silver and Thomas' berth, as while she very much liked her skirts and sleeves and hats and jewelry, they were fiendishly impractical for slogging around a place like this. Silver was the closest to her in size, and she opened his trunk, pulling out a spare pair of breeches, a shirt, jacket, and stockings. Stripped off her grimy damask dress and pulled on his clothes instead, enjoying the unusual freedom of trousers. She buckled on her cutlass; she wasn't as good with it as she was with a pistol, but it was the principle of the thing, and once she had tied back her hair, she felt downright piratical. She pulled on her boots and turned to go back up for her pistols, then –

She almost crashed into Madi, who had clearly come down to fetch something and instead went briefly frozen at the sight of Geneva in her ex-husband's clothes, which made Geneva herself rather self-conscious. "I, ah – I'm sorry, I could have asked if it's – "

"No." Madi blinked, not quite able to glance away, in a way that confused Geneva until it struck her that she must look rather like a younger, beardless, two-legged John Silver. "It… when you do go, I…" She paused, struggling for words. "Find him. I… I don't want it to end for him like this, or… or for us. I want to see him again. I still have things to say to him. I… need to."

Madi scrubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand, as if ashamed of this weakness, but unable to hold it back any longer, heartsick and tired and admitting that she still loved Silver very much and could not bother to hold him at arm's length any more. Perhaps this was since he was in fact gone and thus easier to reckon with, but it was also perhaps as if his determination to save her and Thomas on the  _Hispaniola,_ with no thought for himself, had crumbled that last bit of her angry, years-long resolve to punish him for shattering her trust and the death of their son. As if she had discovered that beneath the char and the ashes and the time, the rage and the grief, love still remained, and she wanted to see if there was any chance to blow it gently back to life. Even if only to part on good terms with him, if nothing else. She deserved that much at least.

Geneva considered. Then, not sure she should, but wanting to find out nonetheless, she put one arm around Madi's waist, the other hand on her face, and pulled her close. Touched their foreheads, then their noses, and kissed her, the way that she thought (or at least hoped) Silver might have, if he was there, if either of these stubborn people had bent enough to do it. She was entirely prepared for Madi to push her away and ask her why she had done that, but Madi did not resist at all. Closed her eyes tightly, took a breath as if to inhale the scent of the old clothes, and kissed Geneva back for a long moment, clearly dreaming with all her might that it was in fact Silver. That it was that easy, and that gentle, and that true.

After another moment, they pulled apart, and Geneva touched Madi's chin. "I'll find him," she said quietly. "I'll find them both."

Madi looked up at her with no words. Merely nodded, pulled her shawl tighter, and watched her go. Geneva strode off down the passage, and climbed the ladder to the deck. In the shadow of the setting sun and the dark trees of Skeleton Island, she stepped into the boat with Thomas and the others, put the oars in the locks, and began to row.


	27. XXVII

For the first hour, even as the higher ground above them turned pale gold, the sunlight slowly climbing from behind the bulk of the trees, the path that Liam, Regina, Matthew, and the men walked remained shrouded in shadow. The morning was very still, not quite hot and not quite cold, but more of that lukewarm mist that was perpetually on the wrong side of whether or not one's jacket was on. Billowing towers of fog glided past like shapeless spirits, sometimes breaking to reveal a crack of colorless sky. The narrow track along the bottom of the ravine looked, in Liam's opinion, like a fine place to be hit with a flash flood if there was a sudden squall, and he kept eyeing up potential escape routes. But the ground to their right was steep and almost vertical, choked in a labyrinth of impenetrable trees, and the ground to their left broke off into jumbled, muddy stones, a long tidal plain that was mostly bare at the moment, except for beached crabs and strewn seaweed. The message, he supposed, was clear enough. They were going to hope they could take whatever came at them head-on, and pray.

Breathing hard, Liam wiped his forehead. He had insisted on taking the lead, but the old wounds in shoulder and back were unsure that they liked all this grubby tramping, and the stitch in his side felt like an extra one. As Matthew trotted up behind him, with the annoying sprightliness of a twenty-three-year-old compared to a fifty-eight-year-old, the younger captain raised an eyebrow. "Would you like me to go ahead?"

"I'm fine," Liam said reflexively. "I can – "

"Seeing as neither of us know exactly where the second eye of the skull is, you don't have a tactical advantage," Matthew pointed out. "And it will not do us much good if you drop on the spot, attempting to get one up on me. Men are mortal, Mr. Jones. It happens. Surely you and Mrs. Jones have been married long enough that you no longer feel the need to impress her?"

Regina snorted. "Liam will stop trying to impress everyone when he's dead."

"Which," Matthew repeated, "would not be productive for anyone, especially given as you were the one to have personal acquaintance with Lady Fiona Murray and know the most about her. As well, you have done an admirable job assisting in the operation of the  _Griffin._ So yes, I would prefer for you not to topple over in the jungle. I can manage this."

"I… have no doubt you can." That at least Liam could not deny. "But – "

"If we are going by seniority of age," Matthew said, "then yes, you would outrank me. If we are going by active command, however, I still hold that, whereas I recall that you lost your captaincy on the  _Imperator_ many years ago."

"Yes," Liam said, half in a growl. "Thanks to your benevolent patron Lord Robert Gold, in fact."

There was a tense moment as they stared at each other; Matthew was almost as tall as Liam, though more thinly built, and did not have to tilt his chin back to meet his eyes. As they had already encountered quite enough trouble from unnamed members of their family punching Navy sailors (and for that matter, each other), Liam did not intend to break into a repeat round of fisticuffs, but still. They were only interrupted by Regina scoffing loudly. "God's sake, are you two finished? Can we keep going, or should we hold an actual pissing contest first?"

"No," Liam said politely, turning away. "We can go, yes. Would Captain Rogers perhaps like to lead the way?"

Matthew gave him one more stare, then nodded, with the same determinedly cordial air. He hitched his musket up on his back and strode to the head of the party, pushing aside the tangle of vines and starting on. After feeling a final significant glare from his wife on the back of his head, Liam swallowed his pride and followed.

They did make somewhat better time in this manner, until it was late morning and the indistinct sunlight had finally climbed most of the way over the island. Then they tramped down into a sandy clearing, at the end of a small inlet. It didn't look big enough to be the second eye, and besides, there was no ship in it. Matthew took out his compass and attempted to reckon their most probable direction of travel, but apart from them being reasonably sure that east was on their right-hand side, the needle spun uselessly without settling anywhere. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse and shook it. "Is this some added delight of the place, that navigational instruments do not work here?"

"It wouldn't surprise me." Liam eyed the rocks around them, wondering if they had a particularly high iron content that was playing havoc with the compass' inner mechanism. That, however, might be too prosaic an explanation. "Speaking of which, we'd better use something to mark the path we just emerged from. I don't want to get back here and then have no idea which way we're supposed to go."

Regina tore a strip off her sleeve to tie around a branch of one of the trees, and checked the knot to be sure it couldn't blow away. They took a drink at the spring that bubbled through the rocks; it tasted slightly brackish, but not bad. Then Matthew stood up, thought hard, and pointed at the track that led back up the beach and into the woods. "The first eye is inland," he said. "I imagine the second one is as well. Let's go."

Regretfully, Liam had to admit that this made sense, and they headed across to prepare for a second forage into the dense underbrush. Indeed the greenery was thick enough that Matthew could not whack it aside by himself, and was compelled to call upon Liam for assistance. As they did their best to cut a path, sap glistening stickily on the edges of their sabers, Matthew said quietly, "So have you missed it at all? The Navy?"

"I…" Liam was caught by surprise. He concentrated on hacking a particularly stubborn vine, then ducked through. "I don't… I don't know. It was familiar, aye, and during our various crises on the journey here, it helped that I knew what to do. But how I left it, everything that it took from me and Killian… it gave us a great deal, I cannot deny that. That was the first place we mattered, where we felt that we could do well and serve decently and honorably. But there were some compromises we were not willing to make, between what we believed and what they did, and ultimately, that was why we were marked to be destroyed. Gold did that. Even as much as he doubtless has advanced and patronized your career, he ruined mine and Killian's, and all for his own reasons. Once again, I have to warn you. It is very unwise to rely on that man, or think he will be your friend forever. He wanted your father to serve him, and your father never did. I imagine Gold is taking considerable pleasure in collecting the son instead."

Matthew glanced at him briefly, then away. "Your family does keep saying that," he allowed at last. "Your nephew, then your sister-in-law. But you were pirates, of course Lord Robert felt obligated to deal with you to the extent of the – "

"That's what I'm saying," Liam interrupted. "Killian and I  _weren't_ pirates. We were a respected captain and lieutenant aboard a ship with a reputation for decency and fairness, which – much as it chafed the Admiralty, especially our objection to slavery – was nonetheless something they couldn't actively punish. Without Gold's interference – well, it is impossible to say if we would have come across some other conflict that tore us apart in the same way. But there is no doubt that he was the one responsible for orchestrating our downfall. He needed a monster in Captain Hook, and he made it, among others. You're a smart young man, and you have thus far, like a loyal servant, done everything he asked of you. What about when you don't?"

"That won't happen," Matthew said, but he sounded slightly less than sure. "I am a captain, my own man, I can accept or reject a course of action on my own merits, and if Lord Robert was to ask something distasteful – then yes, I would take account of what you have said. But I have seen no evidence of that as yet."

"Have you not?" Liam cut down another vine. "Of course you don't see the distaste, because you are the one benefiting from it. Those wounded by it, those damaged, those destroyed can tell you all they wish, but you still won't believe it until it happens to you – because from your safe place, of course it is not real. That is a position common to many powerful men. The suffering of others does not trouble them, and when it does trouble them, it is too late."

Matthew frowned. "But you are a powerful man," he said, as if he did not quite see how that followed. "Why would you – "

"I'm flattered you think so. But Killian and I were born dirt poor in Ireland, baptized Catholic, and sold into servitude by our father as boys. We grew up aboard a variety of ships, with masters that ranged from indifferent to deep-grained sadistic. I took drastic measures to secure our freedom and our entrance into the Navy as young men. So no. I have not grown up powerful, or with the luxury of turning a blind eye to how the system is built, and what feeds it. Even if your father was disgraced and indebted, you were born into a genteel and respected merchant family and raised in all the confines of so-called polite English society. I do not blame you for not knowing or believing any differently, but I challenge you to do so now. Your mother – "

"I am aware of the difficulties surrounding my mother," Matthew said, more than a little shortly. "It's why I've had to work so hard to prove myself, to show them that I do belong, that I – "

"Lad." It wasn't very formal, but Liam couldn't help himself, turning in the path and putting a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Tell me something. If you've had to fight your whole life to get the people who imprisoned your father, judged your mother, would not receive them in their social gatherings, and looked down their nose at you before they ever knew anything about you to respect or like you… why do you  _want_ them to respect or like you?"

Matthew opened his mouth as if he had his answer all prepared, then stopped. "I… polite society has its peccadilloes, of course," he said, sounding as if he was attempting to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "But if the alternative is savagery, then civilization, even with its distastes, must be viewed as the preferable of the two states of nature in which mankind – "

"Which only holds true if you believe the choices are savagery and civilization." Liam resumed his whacking, after glancing over his shoulder to see how Regina and the others were holding up. "Once more, I thought much the same as you. That the only alternative to the dismal misery and dispossession of slavery was the order and structure of the Navy. And in forcing that course, I very nearly lost Killian for good. We've still not entirely recovered from that, after twenty-five years living on opposite sides of the Atlantic."

Matthew's gaze flickered. "I've heard of Captain Hook," he said at last. "That was why I took Mr. Bellamy and your nephew to Lord Robert. You seem a sane and sober man of sense, I will give you that, and Kill – your brother, he did not quite fit the profile of the villain I imagined either. But if you cared for him so much, why did you not save him from that piracy?"

"I tried with everything I had in me. I nearly died more than once in the course of it. I did everything possible, and then some. But my own mistakes had already poisoned the well between us too deeply for me to be the thing that brought him back. Killian changed on his own, for Emma and for himself and for the family they found, despite all the destruction. And as I said, I've not even been much part of it. Regina and I have lived in Paris for over twenty years. We do not have children of our own. Letters have been infrequent. I have paid, and paid, and paid again, the cost of failing to save Killian. You may believe me on that."

Yet again, Matthew did not quite seem to know what to say to that. His lips tightened, he slashed aside a hanging tangle of vines, and ducked onto the overlook beyond. Then he paused, raised a hand, and beckoned Liam to approach, pointing down.

Liam clambered up after him, shaded his eyes, and – while he'd guessed it might be this – still felt his stomach turn an unpleasant flip. A hundred feet below them, as seen from their eagle's-eyrie perch, was what had to be the second eye of Skeleton Island's namesake skull. The circular, blue-watered lagoon was sheltered to one side by cliffs, to left and right by more jungle, and the narrow passage must be the approach from the sea. Furthermore, the  _Titania,_ which Liam recognized at once, was anchored in the middle of it, looking as if she had taken quite a decent pounding from the  _Griffin's_ guns. Liam and Matthew glanced at each other in brief, proud acknowledgement of a job well done. It was clear enough that she would like to avoid returning to the open sea, since she would be swamped in heavy weather, and indeed, something about the scene pricked Liam uncomfortably. Something was wrong.

"Wait," he said, as Matthew untwisted his spyglass. "Can I borrow that?"

Matthew looked as if Liam really should have thought to bring along his  _own_ spyglass, but after a pause, shrugged and handed it over. Liam focused it on the distant ship, trying to place more precisely what had unsettled him, until he said, "Her gun ports are all open. Why would they anchor her and leave her gun ports open? There's nobody on deck. It doesn't look like they left a crew behind to guard against an attack, so…"

"Can you see the longboat?" Matthew asked. "Did they go ashore?"

Liam scanned the deck again. "Boat's not on board, it could be concealed in the jungle. There's a spit of beach just there that could make for a landing, but I can't tell."

"Should we go down and look?" Matthew stood up, clearly hankering for action, now that the ship of their objective, and Lord Robert's captivity, was right in front of them. "I can call for the men if you think we could make an expedition of – "

"Stay down!" Liam grabbed a fistful of Matthew's shirttail, as the young fool made a fine target silhouetted on the clifftop, but Matthew didn't budge. "I… no, something's wrong here, something's wrong." He sniffed. "Do you smell something burning?"

"No." Matthew looked at him, frowning, as if wondering if Liam's elderly mental faculties had been unduly taxed by all this effort. "Why would you – "

At that moment, he was cut off by a sound as if all the air had been sucked out of the world, an instant of pure and perfect silence, followed by an almighty explosion. The  _Titania_ went up in a huge fireball, belching flames and smoke and splinters, as Liam dove at Matthew and tackled him flat in the nick of time. Burning chunks of debris began to hail out of the air around them, sparks guttering in the grass and threatening to set the whole island on fire, as Liam beat them out with his free hand. He started to get up, but was knocked flat again, listening to the madness go on and on, a distant roaring and groaning and crashing as if the entire gates of Eden were coming down. And then, in the forest, he heard Regina scream his name.

" _Jesus."_ Liam wasn't even sure if he'd said it aloud, as he rolled to his feet, dragged Matthew with him, and they barged back into the jungle, still smoldering. He couldn't see the  _Griffin_ men, but he could see two – no, three – others. One was his wife. The latter pair –

"Good  _morning,_ Captain." Lady Fiona Murray turned toward him with a bright smile. "So good to actually see you again, isn't it? Since you so unchivalrously quit my hospitality in the middle of the ocean? We'll get that straightened out, never mind. In the meantime, shall we catch up?"

"You – " Liam skidded to a halt. Regina had been backed up against a rock, but she didn't seem to be trying to move, which was rather unlike her. She was looking down at something in front of her in horrified fascination: a gaping, ragged hole. "You mad, dangerous – what did you – "

"After your lot blew a hole in my ship, it wasn't going to be suitable for the return journey, now was it?" Lady Fiona shrugged briskly. "So I gave orders for it to be left behind and set to blow, I thought that would give you a nasty little surprise if you came poking about, as you were almost sure to do. You're going to take us out on the  _Griffin._ With, of course, the treasure, once we collect it. Aren't they, Robert?"

At that, Liam, Matthew, and Regina turned to look at the fifth person present, who had been lurking behind Lady Fiona as if hoping not to be noticed. His clothes were scruffy and torn, he looked as if he had not bathed or eaten properly in some time, and for once, he had nothing glib or sarcastic to say. Lord Robert Gold opened his mouth, shut it, and then nodded jerkily.

"My lord?" Matthew blinked hard. "My lord! We've been – I've been looking for you! I'm sure it's been a bloody nightmare, but – "

"You promised me," Gold said, speaking not to Matthew but to Fiona. "You promised me that I could see my son."

"Did I?" Lady Fiona looked arch. "Well, I suppose you still might, if he's managed to bungle his way here after all. He's not very bright, you know. Must take after you. Is this your pet Navy captain, Robert? Very pretty. Tell me, my dear, have you been with a woman yet? Carnally?"

"I…" Matthew spluttered. "I fail to see, madam, what business of yours that is in the  _least_ degree. Where are my men? What disgraceful action have you visited on Lord Robert and – "

"Your men are down there." Lady Fiona nodded at the chasm in the earth in front of Regina. Her eyes were sparkling with delight. "The ground isn't very stable. Broke off a mudslide when the  _Titania_ blew, and then that sinkhole. They're very disciplined, they went right in like good soldiers. Don't move, Mrs. Jones. It could still get you, now couldn't it?"

Regina had in fact been hanging tightly onto the rock, looking down into the hole. Liam couldn't tell how deep it was, or if the  _Griffin_ men had survived the fall only to be slowly smothered in mud, but he was in no hurry whatsoever to have his wife serve as the test case. "Hey!" he called to her. "Are they still alive in there?"

Regina glanced down. "I can't – I can't see them."

"Hey!" Matthew shouted, louder. There was a note of something close to panic in his voice. "Hey! Men, can you hear me? Answer me, that's an order!"

"They're not going to, sweetheart." Lady Fiona put her head to the side, regarding him appraisingly. "Hmm. Either way, you are rather fresh, aren't you? And I could do with a spot of refreshment after all this bother. Come over here, won't you?"

Matthew didn't. He reached for his pistol instead. It was clear that it would be quite against his ideals to shoot an aristocratic older woman, yet he might have tried it anyway, until Gold broke in. "Do as she says, Matthew."

"What?" Matthew wheeled to stare at his patron. "Did I – I was under the impression that you had not gone with her willingly?"

"It's complicated." Gold did not quite seem able to meet his eyes. "But I need you to listen to me. Come over here."

Matthew looked flummoxed, unsure what to do, as the sinkhole heaved abruptly, Regina jerked her feet away from it, and Liam tried to see if there was enough solid ground for him to get to her. Maybe if he could break off a branch, or see if a large piece of the  _Titania's_ timbers had landed up here. "Matthew," he said. "Matthew, I told you, don't – "

Matthew glanced at him, then back at Gold, as if struggling to decide. Then he took one uncertain step, and another, in the direction of Lady Fiona and Lord Robert. "I must warn you, my lady," he said. "I have no intention of taking you aboard my ship after you yourself blew up your old one, and especially if you are intending some further malice to – "

"That's quite adorable." Lady Fiona took a small flask out of her pocket and flipped it open, causing it to smoke slightly. "Just stand right there, won't you?"

Matthew opened his mouth, then let out a sharp hiss of startled pain as steel flashed in Lady Fiona's hand: a small, elegant dagger, the blade now gleaming red from the slash along the underside of his arm. Lady Fiona shook the droplets into her cordial, frowned at it with a connoisseur's air, and moved to cut at him again. "Bit more."

"I – " Matthew ripped his wounded arm back. "Are you trying to drink my  _blood?"_

"Well, yes," Lady Fiona said, as if puzzled that this was not immediately obvious. "It's the chief ingredient in my restorative potion. Special brew of my own invention. Stand still, won't you? I don't want to accidentally cut anything else. Not yet, at least."

"Tell her – " Matthew shot a frantic look at Gold. "Certainly you are not privy to this demonic – my lord, this cannot possibly be – "

Still Gold did not answer, acting as if he could not hear him, as Liam thought that he had never seen Gold like this – and for that matter, he had never seen Gold in a situation with his own neck so clearly on the line. Bereft of his burly bodyguards, his comfortable mansion, easy victims to manipulate and mistreat and torment, his extensive network of favors paid and favors owed, hidden assassins, loyal stooges, all the strings he could pluck and tangle, all the gold from straw that he could conjure, he was just an old man in a jungle, standing there and doing nothing, lest he be next. The emperor without his clothes, indeed. A coward.

Matthew was so occupied in staring at him that he forgot to jerk his arm away when Lady Fiona made her next slash, and she got quite a bit of blood to splash into her drink. She made a satisfied sound, stirred it, and took a long sip, shuddering from head to toe in apparent delight. "Oh yes. That was just what I needed. Robert, do you want some? It's quite effective."

With that, she held the flask out to Gold, who looked momentarily suspicious that it might curdle to poison the instant that he touched it. Matthew pulled his cut arm to his chest, trying to wrap it in his cravat, which quickly drank up and turned crimson. "My lord," he said. "This is madness, this is rank madness. I don't care what she promised you, surely it cannot be worth – "

Gold reached for it. Took a breath, as if steeling himself, and a long drink.

For a moment, for two moments, more, Liam prayed fervently that it had in fact poisoned both of them. But then Gold performed the same sort of satisfied shudder, as if feeling his strength return at last, and the sensation was apparently agreeable enough that he took another top-up sip. "There," he said to Lady Fiona, in a hiss. "Still want to play, do you?"

"Oh, yes." She did not seem disconcerted by this development as she took the flask back, the two of them staring each other down. "Now, get your pet to take us to the  _Griffin,_ won't you?"

Liam drew out his pistol, not remotely certain which one of them he should try to shoot, and the angle was bad; he could hit Gold, but he could also just as easily hit Matthew. Besides, Regina was still stuck at the brink of the slurping sinkhole, losing her grip on the rock, and the ground felt less than steady under Liam's feet as well. The entire clifftop could slide loose at this rate, cascade over the edge all the way down to the burning wreckage of the  _Titania_ below. Doing his absolute best not to think about how many of the  _Titania's_ crewmen might have been trapped aboard the ship when it blew, if it was their bones sifting out of the sky to join the other skeletons, Liam kept crawling toward his wife. Just a little further. Just a little further.

Behind him, Matthew Rogers said, sounding choked, "No."

"No?" Gold took a menacing step. "We are  _getting_ off this island. With the treasure. On your ship. You are my loyal servant, Matthew. I've always been generous to you. Patronized your career from the start, smoothed any difficulties over for you. Without me, you'd never – "

"So you have." Matthew sounded almost drunk, and Liam wondered exactly how much blood he was losing. "But this – my lord, surely you can understand this is – "

Behind them, Liam reached Regina, or at least a few feet from her, the closest he could get without risking a plunge into the sinkhole himself. He looked down, but she was right; it was impossible to tell if anything stirred in the muddy depths. He strained out his hand as she reached back, and their slippery fingers slid and struggled without being able to hold firm. He leaned out further as she grabbed again, nearly lost hold of her, and snatched her wrist hard enough that he almost thought he'd break it. Braced his feet, feeling as if the world was about to go out from under him in any number of senses, and managed to drag her bodily over the rock; it would leave her incredibly scraped up, but that was the least of their concerns. Pulled with one great heave, and the two of them toppled together onto firmer ground, clinging to each other.

A few yards away, Lady Fiona, Gold, and Matthew had barely taken any notice of this. The silence hung heavy, except for the continued bubbling and boiling of the unstable mud and the distant hiss and groan of the burning ship below. Then Matthew said again, "No. I'm – I am not doing this. I refuse."

"Unwise." Lady Fiona's gaze had lost its amusement, turning flat and cold and black. "You know, Robert, a disloyal servant is worse than an enemy. Are you going to do the honors?"

Gold hesitated. "I need to get to my son," he said to Matthew, as if in explanation. "I'm sorry. You've been a useful acquaintance – far more so than your father ever was, to be sure. I'll write to the Admiralty and tell them you had a massively heroic death, so you will get what you wanted after all. The Rogers name will be redeemed. Everyone wins."

And with that, he threw something into the sinkhole just behind them, from whence an echoing boom and a blast of flame issued. Lady Fiona and Gold scrambled one way, Liam and Regina the other, but Matthew was caught in the middle, in no-man's-land, arms outstretched and blown backward by the force. He turned an almost graceful somersault in midair, and plunged. One moment he was there, the next he was not, swallowed up by the depths without a trace.

Liam heard himself yelling, but only halfway, in a distant, muffled way. His ears were still ringing from the explosion, as he swung his pistol down onto his arm, braced, sighted, and fired. The shot ricocheted off the trees and went wide, Gold and Fiona ducked, and ran off into the trees on the far side. Branches cracked and rustled, and then the jungle gulped them up.

Liam threw himself onto his stomach and crawled toward the edge of the hole. He couldn't see Matthew, or anyone else. Gusts of sulfur scorched his throat, until he wondered with no exaggeration if this was in fact the mouth of hell. Matthew could have survived the fall, he could be down there, it might have broken an exit shaft lower in the hillside. Or he could be trapped in hot mud with no way to get out, condemned to the same slow, dark, suffocating death as his men. Even that, even the wound in his arm would be nothing besides the betrayal.  _I just saw Gold do to Matthew what he did to Killian and me, once upon a time. I couldn't stop Killian, I couldn't save him. I can't do that again, and I can't walk away. If Matthew does survive and turns into some new Captain Hook –_

There was only one way to find out. If he was wrong, it was death for him as well. And yet. Somehow, after all these years and all these regrets and all these failures, this was something he could genuinely do, and do without flinching. To make it right for the older generation and the younger one alike. That, perhaps, was all he needed. All he had ever needed.

"I love you," Liam shouted to Regina. "Get back to the  _Griffin._ Warn the others! Stop Gold and Fiona. Tell Killian – if I don't see him again, you know what to say, I did what I had to."

"Liam?" She stared at him, white-faced, which then turned to horror as she understood what he was going to do. "Liam –  _Liam, no!"_

Too late.

Liam pushed off, let go, and fell.

* * *

The first few times Killian looked back to mark their progress, the  _Griffin_ was still in sight below, anchored a few hundred yards from the blackened shell of the  _Walrus._ The juxtaposition of the two, the living Navy fifth-rater and the ghostly ruin of the pirate ship, gave him a chill, though why he couldn't quite say. Perhaps it was the bridge between their old and new lives, all the many years gone by from violent past to uncertain present, or the tangible presence of the ghosts that hung thick on this island for all of them, in whatever shape or form. But the next time he looked back after that, the trees had closed in. It was just the four of them, and the jungle.

Killian shook his head, reminded himself that distraction was likely to be very costly in this place, and almost had to jog to catch up. He had never seen Miranda this possessed, striding ahead and barely remembering her cane, climbing the long, steep, narrow path without much more difficulty than the rest of them. She might be forced to remember her limitations later, but for now, they clearly could not be further from her mind. "Hey," he panted, pulling alongside her. "Don't overdo it, eh? We could be in for a bloody long search."

"I know." Miranda gave him a half-smile. "But I don't care. I am  _getting_ to James, and to Jack, and to Sam, and we are getting them all off this damnable island, no matter what. I've spent almost twenty-five years missing Sam's namesake and Jack's uncle, and I am  _not_ losing the lads like that. I simply refuse. If Jack never wants to have anything to do with the lot of us again… that is his prerogative, I cannot change his mind. But we are going to save them."

"I hope so," Charlotte said. She still looked red-eyed and wan, but the same steely determination was visible in her expression. "And that Jack hasn't done anything he – that he can't take back. Do you think there's any chance, if Billy took your son, that they stumbled into Flint and Jack?"

Emma, at Killian's side, went pale, as any confrontation between Flint and Billy would end with one of them, and possibly any nearby bystanders, not walking away from it. "I don't know," she said. "Flint clearly didn't take them down the main passage, so they could have landed anywhere on the island. And if Flint and Billy were here for at least a year together, and didn't cross paths then, they could avoid doing it again. Just look at this place. It could lead you in circles forever."

Everyone tried not to catch each other's eye, as the fact was that they too could fall prey to Skeleton Island's disorienting and dangerous effects. Killian had been aware of a strange buzzing in his ear, like an irritating insect that wasn't there every time he moved to swat it, and while he, as an excellent navigator, was normally impeccable with directions, he kept struggling with any sense of which way they were headed or where they should keep going. He had been using the checks back to the  _Griffin_ more than he wanted to admit, and he had to fight off a certain sensation of being totally lost. "Billy and Flint both know the island, as much as you can know it. I don't think either of them would stumble anywhere, at least not accidentally."

"Maybe not." It was Charlotte's voice from up ahead, sounding strange. "You might want to have a look at this, though."

Killian, Emma, and Miranda glanced at each other, then sped up, climbing over the earthen berm and into the treed perch beyond. It looked as if it had been fortified and disguised with branches, foliage, and bits of bracken, and it had a clear line of sight down to the harbor. While it was momentarily reassuring to glimpse the  _Griffin_  again, at least only for proof that it had not mysteriously sunk while it was out of view, this had clearly been set up to have a good vantage point on anyone coming ashore. It was also just as clearly not intended to make sure that they landed safely. It was Emma who said first, "This is a sniper's nest."

"No guns, though." Charlotte frowned. "Unless whoever set this up had an unexpected change of plan and had to abandon it. In which case, I imagine, they took their guns with them. If Jack and Flint didn't come this way, I don't see how it could be them. I think – I certainly damn well  _hope –_ Jack wouldn't put together something like this, and he only had one pistol with him, anyway."

"No," Emma said quietly. "This looks like Billy's work."

There was a pause, as Killian wondered if they should scout for bloodstains or signs of a struggle, and yet could not bear to voice the possibility. If Billy had somehow lost Sam, his valuable hostage, or if Sam had escaped, Billy might have felt it worth leaving his meticulously constructed murder hole in order to recapture him. There was no way to know if he had in fact succeeded, if Sam was alive or dead, and Killian felt a strange, clear, almost surreal conviction settle over him: that if Billy or anyone else had touched a single hair on his son's head, he was going to burn and raze this entire godforsaken place to the ground, after first murdering the culprit in the most awful way he could possibly think of. He could feel Captain Hook banging on the bars of his cage, demanding to be let out, and he only half wanted to keep expending the energy to hold him back. Killian bent over, bracing hard and gulping air, reminding himself that it availed nothing to make assumptions and fly off the handle completely. There was simply no acceptable world where this cost them Sam, another Sam. Not after everything.

Emma put a hand on his back, their eyes meeting in shaken and silent accord. At least it didn't look, to a preliminary inspection, as if anyone had been shot here, and there was no blood on the underbrush. No body either. It did look as if something or someone had blundered through the bracken, breaking a trail, and after a final pause, Killian jerked up his hand. "This way."

The four of them proceeded very cautiously, single file, trying to keep noise to a minimum. Killian got a firm grip on his pistol, expecting every moment for Billy or some other mad avenger to leap out of the bushes, but the trail led to a fast-rushing stream, the bank broken and scuffed as if someone had lost their footing and plunged off it. It was impossible to tell which direction they could have gone; in fact, the most likely option seemed to be that Sam (as it almost had to be, since nobody else would be running away from here) had fallen in the water. Killian stared at it for a long moment, debating the merits of jumping in as well and letting it sweep him away, but he was aware that that was a stupid idea. There was a path that led up on the far side, and he wanted to get high enough for a vantage on the island, see if there was any disturbance – or for that matter, another ship. "Come on," he managed. "We have to go up."

They crossed the stream and started to climb. The slope tilted more and more steeply, almost vertically, and they had to use all fours, which was a bloody inconvenience for a one-handed man. Killian wished devoutly that he'd worn his hook, not least because he wanted to bury it between someone's eyes if necessary, and instead had to bat clumsily with the gloved wooden fingers of his false hand. _Captain Hand sounds a deal less threatening, but I can make do in a pinch._ He could see a clearing of the trees above, so perhaps they were almost to the ridge of the island's central mountain. That should give a decent spot for reconnaissance.

Charlotte had climbed ahead, as she was the youngest member of the group by a good thirty years, and Killian saw her waving frantically down at them. That impelled him to go still faster, as Emma and Miranda did the same, and they clawed their way out of the last tangles of trees and onto the exposed crest of the ridge, which switchbacked back and forth a few miles to the distant green summit. The view was stupendous, but that was not what had attracted Charlotte's attention. On the eastern side of the island, tiny enough to be just visible but nonetheless unmistakable, was another ship.

"Is that the  _Titania?"_ Emma, still getting her breath, clutched hard at Killian's arm. "Do you recognize – ?"

"I don't think so." Killian frowned. "I've never gotten much of a proper look at her, since she fired on the  _Nautilus_ at night, and then on the  _Griffin_ in the fog, but that doesn't look the same. Besides, we thought they would be making for the other eye of the skull, and that ship approached from the open sea. Wrong look, wrong position. It's someone else."

Emma opened her mouth, doubtless to ask who he thought it was instead, but at that moment, a distant, mammoth blast tore through the eerie silence, rumbling and rolling until Killian briefly thought that the island's mountain was a volcano, and it was exploding (such additional calamity was in no way unlikely). A column of thick black smoke began to rise from the trees to the north, and all of them got a whiff of a sour, acrid burning scent. That was far too large for a single cannon shot, or perhaps even several. It was wrong for the last known position of the  _Griffin,_ but they couldn't be sure, as the angle from here was too sheer to see into the eye of the skull. Perhaps it could have sailed north, but that would require a long, delicate reverse navigation down the channel without them, leaving its captain ashore.

"I…" Emma looked shaken. "Do you think  _that_ was from the  _Titania?"_

"It's highly bloody likely," Killian said grimly. "Doing what, though?"

"Blowing up something large, clearly." Charlotte shaded her eyes and tried to get a better look, but the origin of the smoke was completely obscured by the steep, jungled bluffs. It was from up here that you could appreciate just how much of a maze Skeleton Island actually was. The high ground cut back and forth as if by a drunken tailor none too cautious with the shears, and visibility kept dropping away into cuts and cliffs and other dead ends, where you knew the sea should lie just there to the south but were completely unable to spot it. The trees jammed together without a break or measurable clearing apart from where they ran up against the shore, and certain patches were even darker than the rest, as if grown and overgrown to the point of total inescapability. Even if you did climb up here with the intention of getting the lay of the land, as they had, it was no guarantee that you could actually do a damn thing about it. Flint's (and Billy's, Killian supposed) survival and escape seemed the more and more impressive the longer they stayed here. Which, in fact, reminded him. Smoke or no smoke, they needed to be getting on with things.

"Well," he said, trying to sound authoritative. "It would be a dangerous scramble to get to the source of that, and it wouldn't be very useful anyway. Charlotte, if Jack saw another ship here, would he approach them, make some sort of deal? Billy might have, I don't know. We should at least make damn sure we know who it is, if we have company. All in favor?"

There was a brief pause, and then Emma, Charlotte, and Miranda raised their hands in unison. As he only had one, it was reasonably plain that Killian could not take the lead down the rock-choked, near-vertical descent, and he turned to Charlotte. "You first, lass?"

She paused, then nodded, swinging both legs over the edge and bouldering cautiously out of sight, picking a path through the tumbled, towering stones. Killian came next, then Miranda, and Emma brought up the rear, all of them determinedly not looking down as they put hands and feet only where Charlotte had. About halfway through the descent, they heard a distinctive rush and roar, and realized that it turned into a waterfall for the last fifty feet. Killian was ludicrously tempted to suggest that they just take the express way down, but there was no way of knowing what was at the bottom. If it was a deep pool with no stones, they might have a shot, but expecting this place to be benevolent when it could instead come up with yet another way to kill you felt almost criminally naïve. There could be – had to be – another way.

Charlotte yelled for them to stop, and they came to a halt on a relatively broad, secure ledge, looking down at the white-frothed veil of the falls. There was the possibility of an alternate route to either side, but it would require quite a bit of daredevil climbing out over wet rocks that, to Killian's eye, did not look terribly steady. Or they could climb back up the way they had come and try for another line of descent, but the cliffs turned sheer almost at once. This was the only narrow corridor where there were enough boulders and debris to allow for handholds, and as Charlotte stared at the brink, Killian could see the decision forming on her face. Then she turned to them. "I'm going to have to try going over."

"No," Emma said. "No, that's much too dangerous."

"There's enough water in the flow that I shouldn't hit the rocks on the way down, too much," Charlotte pointed out. "I can't see all of the landing, but I did glimpse a bit of something that looked like a pool, and if I can go in mostly feet-first, that will help. It will take too long to climb back up, and I don't think we can get around anyway. A fall from either side of here would definitely kill us, so…" She took a deep, rattling breath. "I'm going to take the risk. If I – well, if you don't hear anything, then… find another way down, but I can do this. I think."

"What about us?" Killian asked. "Aye, you're a resilient young lass of twenty-something, but for the rest of us elder statesmen – "

"If I can take it," Charlotte said, "I think you can. If it's a butter churn on the way down but no serious injuries, well then, that's not too – "

"I'm going with you," Miranda said.

Everyone blinked, turning to stare at her, and Emma grabbed her arm. "What? No. No, no."

"If Charlotte grabs hold of me," Miranda said, "and I use her as a sled, our combined weight is more likely to keep the other on course. We will also shield each other from the worst of the bumps. One of us might have a chance, yes, but two have a better one. Then if we make it to the bottom, you two – " she nodded at Emma and Killian – "can go over in the same way, and we will additionally be there to pull you out. Does that not make sense?"

Killian could not help but gape at his mother-in-law. "Miranda – "

Her brown eyes burned back at him. "We are wasting time. I said I was facing anything you were. We don't have another option. I'm willing. Charlotte?"

"I…" Charlotte blinked. "If you're  _sure,_ but if I'm wrong – "

"I trust you," Miranda said. "We are getting both of our husbands back, and my grandson."

Charlotte paused once more, then nodded. Killian thought there might be a brief brightness of tears in her eyes, but perhaps that was just the spray. They climbed off the ledge and into the calf-deep water of the waterfall's outrush, the edge just a few feet away; the pull was strong enough that they had to brace hard to avoid being sucked over. Charlotte floated on her back, gripping hold of a pair of rocks, and Miranda climbed on top of her, locking her arms around Charlotte's neck and her legs around Charlotte's thighs, tucking her head under Charlotte's chin. Then Charlotte let go of the boulders to wrap her own limbs around Miranda, and Emma and Killian pushed them slowly toward the brink. "Miranda," Emma said. "I… I love you."

"I love you too, my dear." Miranda smiled at her. "And you will have a chance to tell me again, in a few minutes. Now do it. Give us a good push. Let go."

Emma struggled visibly to unclench her fists from their death grip on Charlotte's left arm, as she and Killian were still the only thing that was holding them back from going over. "I – " she gasped. "Miranda, no, I can't, I  _can't –_ "

"Come on, love," Killian urged her. "I'm here. Look at me. Miranda wants it, we've decided on this together. We're doing this as one, you can, you can. Look at me. Look at me, love, and just let go. I know you can. I know you can. We have to, Emma. You have to."

Emma shuddered a brief, miserable breath, trembling from head to toe. She lifted her head, eyes fixed on Killian's as if looking at him was the only thing that would give her the wherewithal to do this. Then she swung her arm back as he did the same, and in unison, they shoved Miranda and Charlotte over the edge. There was a roar and a splash, and they were gone.

Emma swayed on the spot, almost losing her balance in the continued rush of the current, and Killian caught her, pulling her into his chest and boosting them up onto one of the slimy boulders. They sat there, clutching each other, listening to the unabated tumble of the falls, every single nerve on twisted, twanging, desperate edge for a sound, any sound. Killian likewise felt that he was about to be sick from the tension, when he finally heard a shout. Faint, but distinct. Then again.

He scrambled as close to the edge as he could, but as Charlotte had said, he couldn't see the landing.  _Leap of faith, eh?_ But someone was down there, someone was calling for them, and it was time to take the same chance. He slid back into the water and held out his hand to Emma. "Come on, love. Trust me. Trust us."

Her mouth continued to quiver, but after a pause, she reached out and put hers into it. He gripped hard, drawing her close, as he lay down as Charlotte had and pulled her atop him. "Well, Swan," he said in her ear. "Never let it be said that being married to me is not exciting."

Emma shuddered a brief, terrified, annoyed giggle. "Speak for yourself, pirate."

"Which would entail you as well." Killian kissed her ear. "Close your eyes."

Emma looked as if she was thinking about arguing, but after a moment, she did, arms wrapped so tightly around his chest that Killian briefly wondered if he would die of suffocation before he got anywhere near the waterfall. He linked his good arm over her in turn, and pushed them off with his false hand. Then locked them both tightly over her back, felt them hit the edge, and prayed.

The next moment, there was water to every side and to every angle and up every orifice, including some that Killian had not been previously aware existed. They fell at full speed, almost in space (at least, he thought, Charlotte had been correct, and they were not hitting the rocks). He was aware of the need to keep pointing them down, feet-first, even as the glissade improbably seemed to go even faster, and he had a brief, confused sense of the world, momentarily detached, now smashing up at them. He grabbed hold of Emma even harder, thought the only prayer that came to mind and which seemed appropriate for this bloody place –  _Blessed Michael, defend us from demons –_ and braced.

They slammed into the pool hard enough to daze him and send the shock of impact crashing up his legs, but at least he did not crash into anything else – which, considering the circumstances, was a major victory. They bobbed wildly as a cork, struggling to right themselves, until his head briefly broke the surface and was promptly pummeled under by the force of the water above. For a moment, he did in fact fear that they might drown, until a hand seized him by the collar and hauled him toward the bank. They bumped up into shallower water, Killian opened his stinging eyes, and saw Charlotte, blood running down her face from a gash across the bridge of her nose, but otherwise intact. Both of them were breathing too hard to speak, but they managed a battered, relieved grin.

Killian lay in the shallows for several moments as Emma slowly unlocked herself from him, raising her head as her soaking hair trailed in her eyes. She seemed stunned and euphoric that they were in fact alive, then immediately scrambled off Killian and ran, splashing and dripping, to where Miranda was recovering from her whirlwind water thrill ride on the bank. "You see, my dear," she said, as Emma reached her and threw herself to her knees in front of her. "Never too old for a bit of adventure, now are we?"

Emma didn't answer, gripping Miranda's face in her hands as Miranda did the same, and they gazed into each other's eyes, resting their foreheads together. Killian himself looked gratefully up at Charlotte. "Bloody hell, lass, that's one of the bravest things I've ever seen anyone do. From here – how much farther to that ship? Did you get a look?"

"Not far." Charlotte wrung out her sopping brown curls. "We should be able to make it, but our powder will be quite wet after that little excursion. If we're planning to shoot anyone – "

"I'd hope not," a voice said, close at hand. "Fancy seeing the lot of you here."

Killian and Charlotte whirled around, with Charlotte pulling one of the pistols from her bandolier and cocking it – wet powder or no wet powder, she had good reflexes – as Emma and Miranda let go of each other and jumped to their feet as well. A brown-haired young man in a torn, dirty black velvet jacket had just emerged from the neighboring thicket, pointing guns at them with both hands, as Emma went white to the lips. Her voice, when she spoke, was icily cool and cordial. "Lord Gideon Murray."

"That's him? The pissant who caused so much trouble for us in Charlestown? Gold's…" As Killian stared at the young man, he could see the resemblance. "Gold's son. Aren't you."

"Unfortunately," Gideon snapped. "It is most… instructive to lay eyes on you for the first time, Mr. Jones. You were supposed to be well out of the way."

"Yes, I know," Killian said heatedly. "You had Rufio and his squad of junior thuglets snatch me and whisk me off to France. For your information, I killed Rufio in Le Havre, and God knows what happened to the rest. I heard all about how you were intending to twist the family's arm with the prospect of my safety, in order to force them to carry out your Jacobite errands in Philadelphia, so don't worry, I'm all caught up. But how the bleeding Jesus are you here?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." Gideon kept both guns trained on them. "That ship you seemed so interested in – it's mine, the  _Hispaniola._ I met your daughter out at sea, by the way. Very… charming girl. Quite a bit like you."

Both Emma and Killian jerked forward. "You –  _Geneva?_ Where is she? Did you – I swear, if you laid a single  _finger –_ "

"She's fine," Gideon said curtly. "At last knowledge, she was threatening to kill me. I just needed John Silver to navigate us here, but he and one young Mr. Hawkins have regretfully eluded my custody. I don't suppose you've spotted a one-legged man and his accomplice?"

"Like we'd tell you." Emma drew herself up. "Where is my daughter? What did you do to her?'

"I said, nothing." Gideon was clearly irritated by the topic. "Even helped her out, I'd say, and if your bloody family would just have cooperated from the start – "

Emma looked to be on the very verge of punching Gideon in the face, a course of action that Killian would have thoroughly supported in any other circumstances, but as it was, the two guns and the general precarious nature of things gave him pause. He laid a hand on her arm, thinking fast. "So let me guess. You're here in search of the treasure stash, so you can cart it off for James Stuart and friends? Given your previous actions, I'd take that as the most likely."

"What of it?" Gideon's trigger finger appeared to be getting itchy, and Killian edged in front of Emma and Miranda, just in case. "Does it matter? You're going to help me, or – "

"I think," Killian said, "there's something – someone – on this island you'd rather see first. If I am not much mistaken, that is. We could help you with that."

"Oh?" Gideon scowled. "And what could possibly be more important to me than the – "

"Aye." Killian stared him down. "How about your father?"

* * *

Sam was aware that he was on the ground before he was aware of any conscious decision to do so, which was just about how everything had been going recently. After Grandpa had rescued him last night, and that thing had happened with Jack that Sam very much did not want to think about, he had the ever-increasing sense that he was merely a detached bystander bobbing along for the ride, pulled like a kite on a string, which might have something to do with the fact that his fever was definitely getting worse. The gash on his arm was red and raw and hot, darker red streaks shot through the flesh, and while Sam was not an expert in the medicinal arts, it did not take one to see that the damn thing was quite well and thoroughly infected. Lady Fiona's dagger was probably not a paramount specimen of cleanliness to start with, and after his nightmare boondoggle through Skeleton Island, Sam was only amazed that it hadn't yet been stripped to the bone. He had avoided mentioning it to Grandpa, partly because he didn't want to be a bother and partly because as long as he didn't, he could focus on that instead of Jack. He had recently become aware that this was a bad strategy, but, well. Now they had other things to worry about.

As another shot ripped across the clearing, Sam belatedly pieced together that he was on the ground because Grandpa had pulled him down, and Grandpa had been pulled down in turn by the one-legged man, evidently the infamous Long John Silver himself, who had dived at them when the first gunshot went off. The other young man, whose name Sam was still not clear on but who appeared to know his sister, had been included in this, so they were taking dubious cover behind a large rotted log. A third shot ripped off the bark, inches from Sam's ear, and he fought through the haze in a desperate attempt to focus. "What the fu…"

"I can't tell." Flint tried to raise himself on an elbow far enough to get a good look at their attacker. "He's on the far side, well hidden in the trees – I'll have to sight the muzzle flash on the next one and see if I can – "

"I bet I know." Sam coughed painfully. "There's only one man who has that many guns, who must have spotted you both here and thought it was too good an opportunity to pass up. And is probably also mad at me for cracking him on the head. That's got to be Billy Bones."

Flint looked as if he had just found a very large slug in his soup, but could not demur. He and Long John exchanged an almost inadvertent look, as Silver tried in turn to get a glimpse over the top of the log, and had to dodge again as a bullet drilled into the soft, rotten wood. After a pause Flint said, "We have two rifles and no extra ammunition, so no matter if that's Billy or not, we have exactly two shots to kill him. You over there, what was your name – you also had that pistol you stupidly threatened me with, give it over – "

"My name's Jim. Jim Hawkins." The young man stared back at Flint with impressive composure. "And I thought Sam was in danger."

"Well, he is now," Flint muttered grimly, whisking the pistol out of Jim's hand without further ado and bracing it on his arm. He tried to sight over the log, then cursed. "No good. No fucking good. I can shoot at the leaves, but – "

"Hold on," Silver said. "Let me – let me try something."

There was a hideous pause as Flint stared at him, as Sam was well aware that this was the last thing in the entire world that his grandfather wanted to do: trust another big plan of John Silver's on Skeleton Island itself. But they were pinned down and under heavy fire, Sam had seen for himself how many guns Billy had and the supplies to reload them, and there was nowhere for any of them to move without getting shot. Quietly Silver said, "I will not ask if you trust me. You know what that answer is. But do you know who I am?"

There was another, slightly longer pause. Then Flint said, "Yes. I fucking well know that."

"All right." Silver seemed to be counting in his head. Then he said, "About thirty seconds between shots. That must be how long it takes Billy either to reload or to cycle between guns. Which means the next one is – "

Another bullet splintered the wood, close enough to Jim to make him roll away into Sam. Good bloody thing, Sam thought bitterly, that Billy was bloody punctual.

"Now. Now!" Silver, assured of twenty-eight seconds or so before the next shot, vaulted clumsily over the log and stood up, both hands raised, in clear and easy view of the trees across the way. "Billy!" he bellowed.  _"BILLY!_ I know you're there!"

No answer. Billy, of course, knew better than to give away his position, especially when John Silver had just popped up like a mole out a hole and was seemingly volunteering to be shot. Flint's knuckles went white on the stock of his forcibly borrowed pistol, and Sam edged up to get a better look. Stalemate. Billy wouldn't reveal himself or Flint would shoot him, and Flint couldn't shoot him until Billy revealed himself, which he would do if he shot at Silver. A strange, echoing, eerie silence fell after the crack and strafe of the gunshots, until all at once, Sam had a bad idea. Most likely it was the fever delirium talking, but they were not exactly spoiled for choice. "Grandpa," he whispered. "Grandpa, grab me. Act like you're using me as a human shield. You and Silver have to stage an argument, you – Billy thinks you're Flint, you're the monster, and he needs to see you threatening me. I think it'll throw him."

"What?" Flint stared at him. "Sam, are you – "

"No," Sam said. "I know I'm not a pirate, and I'm not terribly good at this. But I  _have_ spent a bit of time with Billy recently. He's still automatically thinking that you and Silver are in cahoots and Silver's trying to draw him out. Come on. Please, just do it."

Flint kept staring at him. Then all at once, he came to a decision. He reached over, grabbed hold, and pulled him up over the log – that was, pulled Jim Hawkins, who was quite alarmed at this turn of events and struggled to break Flint's iron grip. Flint, however, paid no attention. He swung Jim toward the trees and shouted, "Billy! You want to see me? Here I am! Go on, have a try, shoot us both. What's one more innocent man's life?"

Sam, now the only one remaining behind the log, inched up far enough to get a better look. Flint had the pistol jammed under Jim's chin, and Jim looked sharply sidelong at Silver, as if to say that he had not signed up for this and had no idea which one of them to trust, or if both of them were playing competing games to some dangerous, vengeful end. Silver himself had clearly been taken off guard. "James – Captain – "

"Shut up," Flint warned him. "Or I'm shooting your companion right here. I might call him your friend, but we know you don't have any friends, don't we? Eh? BILLY!"

There was a final pause, and then the leaves rustled. Like a tall, silent specter of the wood, Billy Bones emerged from his concealed position, holding a heavy blunderbuss cocked and ready. Sam's whack across the temple had left a fairly impressive red weal, but it only served to make Billy look more towering and dangerous than ever, several more guns slung in reserve over his shoulders. Aiming the blunderbuss dead at Flint's head, he said, "Let Hawkins go."

"You've met, have you?" Flint grinned. "You know, that makes this doubly satisfying."

"In Bristol, yes." Billy kept the muzzle pointed unwaveringly at his oldest enemy, the man he had blamed for destroying his life, had concocted this entire plan in order to hunt down. "Look at the two of you, once more at each other's throats. Or at least that's what you want me to think, isn't it? I know you, remember. I know both of you. Silver is out here playing the fucking bird with the broken wing, fluttering and flapping to distract me, so you can draw me out and shoot me. Even after years spent insisting you hated each other, you just fall right back into it, don't you? Two sides of the same coin, just as ever. What did you do to Sam?"

"Sam?" Flint said, not missing a beat. "No idea. Why, did you misplace him?"

Billy shook his head, almost looking amused. "You know, he vouched for you. Tried to insist that you had actually changed. That there was some possibility you would have let this go by now – which, it goes without saying, you haven't. And you, Silver. You're fucking pathetic. Desperately panting at Flint's heels for any scrap of kindness or grudging atonement he feels like throwing to you, when the one useful thing you did in your life was to draw a line in the sand and give him what he deserves. Even if he shot Hawkins right here, right in front of you, no doubt you'd find some way to rationalize that away as well. So, then. It seems I'm just going to have to kill you both. Who wants to go first?"

Nobody moved or spoke. Sam, still hidden behind the log, felt his heart banging painfully against his ribs, as well as the realization that one of the rifles that Flint had taken off Hands was within his reach. Billy was standing right there, he clearly hadn't realized that Sam was here as well, and thus thought that all the threats were accounted for. That he had both Flint and Silver essentially at his mercy, with the minor obstacle of Jim, and a man who had gone to the Navy to sell out his old shipmates, and then helped Woodes Rogers kill them, was not going to be terribly constrained by that annoyance for long. Sam crawled toward the rifle, ignoring the now-agonizing pain in his arm, and wondered if he could do it. It was Gold he had really wanted to kill, in revenge for Nathaniel's death. Then he had realized that was going to lead him nowhere good, wouldn't bring Nathaniel back anyway, and wasn't something he was truly prepared to do. But Billy… Billy had kidnapped him, lied to him about Jack (though Jack had done plenty of lying on his own), and was now threatening to carry through on his long-standing threat. Yet he had also saved Sam from Lady Fiona's attempted heart-eating, and he had once been Mum's friend, a long time ago. Was Sam going to be able to do this, when he had never killed anyone else before, and not completely lose some vital part of himself?

Slowly, clumsily, Sam lifted the rifle. It felt heavy and alien in his hands, even though he knew quite well how to use it. Again that memory of shooting at Jack, before knowing it was Jack, back at the battle of St. Augustine, flittered to the surface like goldfish in a pond. He cocked the rifle and raised it, sighting down the barrel at Billy. If he didn't kill him with the first try, Billy could shoot Grandpa or Silver or Jim Hawkins, and Sam was decidedly sure that he did not want that to happen. He felt cold all over, in a way quite distinct from his fever.  _Come on, you have to._

For a moment more, the silence remained absolute. Then Billy swung his blunderbuss around on Flint, Flint shoved Jim away and snapped back to face him with the pistol, and Silver and Sam took matters into their own hands at the same instant. Billy pulled the trigger of the blunderbuss, and Sam pulled the trigger of the rifle. The stock rocked painfully back against his shoulder, he couldn't let go because his hands had somehow frozen, and among the haze of gun smoke, he could only make out a lot of confused figures, blundering and shouting. Billy staggered, dropping his gun. There was a slow, spreading red stain in his side, which he stared at as if not sure where it had come from. Then he looked up, locked eyes with Sam, who had started to shake so hard that the barrel of the rifle rattled loudly against the log, and understood. Reached for one of his other guns and struggled to point it, on the verge of doing it, of actually killing Sam, Emma Swan's son or not. But for a final hairsbreadth, a moment, he didn't. Then he gathered himself, and fired.

Sam dove away, just as he heard another pair of gunshots, and did not know if he could bear to see what these ones were. The world was somersaulting badly, his ears kept ringing and ringing, and for some reason when he looked at his hand, it was red. At least his arm was suddenly not the part of him that hurt the worst, which he could not figure out. Then he looked down at his shirt, and saw that it appeared to be stuck to a hole just under his last rib. The fabric, which had been filthy before, was now also turning red to boot.

 _Well,_ Sam thought, with his keen and penetrating powers of insight.  _That's definitely not good._  But he could not pay attention to that, not yet. Not now. Instead, he struggled to haul himself upright, peered over the log, and into the clearing.

Flint was slowly lowering the pistol, staring at Billy, who had fallen just a few feet from him. By the looks of things, it was Flint's shot that had finished him off, but there had been so many flying and colliding bullets that it was hard to be sure. Flint kept staring at him for a long moment, as if waiting to see if he was going to get up. When he didn't, Flint took an unsteady step backward. Despite all the men he must have killed, his hands were shaking uncontrollably, and he wracked them across his face, struggling to master himself. Then he looked up, and saw Sam. "Jesus fucking Christ, was that – did you – "

"I did, yeah," Sam said. It was hard to talk; he felt breathless and punched. "I think."

"Are you – " Flint stopped, completely discombobulated, as if he had no idea where to turn or look or what to do first. "Are you – "

"I'm fine," Sam lied. "What – where did Silver…?"

"He's there." Jim got a stick and prodded Billy, but he definitely appeared to be dead. Then he dropped it and ran across the clearing to where Silver was half-sitting, half-sprawling against a tree, looking the same as the rest of them felt. Jim knelt next to him. "Hey. Are you – did you get hit?"

Silver took his hand away, revealing the wound that he had been keeping pressure on. Sam's focus of the world was starting to fritz and spin out, but it looked as if Silver had been shot – of all the ironies – in the thigh of his bad leg, catching the bullet intended for Flint which he had leapt in front of. He swatted weakly at Jim as Jim tried to get a better look. "It doesn't matter. What are they going to do, hack it off a little higher this time? Leave it. Leave it."

"No." Jim looked around. "You – James – do we have something to make a bandage?"

Flint jumped, as if not sure that he had heard correctly when addressed by his Christian name. Then he pulled off his jacket and tossed it to Jim, who commenced tearing it into strips, binding up Silver's leg as Silver continued to grumble feebly. Sam, for his part, was gazing up at the sky and feeling almost comfortable, which was a guaranteed combination of high fever and sustained blood loss. He supposed he could call for them, tell them that he had been shot too, but he was not sure what good it was going to do. He didn't know if he had actually killed Billy, and didn't want to think about it. This was all ridiculous. He wanted to go home.

A moment later, a shadow fell over him, and he looked up to see Flint, staring down at him as an aghast expression on his face. He leapt down and crouched next to Sam. "Fucking – Jesus, you're hit. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Didn't wanna," Sam mumbled. "Didn't wanna be a burden."

"The fuck you mean, you don't want to be a burden?" Flint had already sacrificed his jacket for Silver's bandage, but he held up a hand and shouted, and Jim threw him back the remainder. "You're not a burden to us, you idiot. You're not. Jesus, you helped me kill – "

With that, he stopped. Then he pulled away the shirt from the wound and began to fold up strips, pressing them hard against it. Sam observed in drowsy, detached semi-interest. "Grandpa," he said. "Grandpa. Look, my arm is – it doesn't matter if you – it doesn't – "

"No," Flint said, in the closest thing to outright panic that Sam had ever heard from him. "I am not letting you – Sam. Sam, open your eyes. Sam, stay awake. Stay awake!"

"It hurts," Sam said, in what sounded close to a whimper. "I don't want to."

"No. No,  _no, no,_ you are  _not._ " Flint's tone was halfway between snarling and pleading. He kept working, folding up more strips of his torn jacket and binding them tightly around Sam's side, until some of the bleeding had slowed. Then he carefully slid an arm under his shoulders and lifted him up, as the world rushed in blinding, blackening cartwheels around Sam's head. "Hey. Hawkins! Hawkins!"

"What?" Jim was just hauling Silver to his feet; Silver's arm was heavily around his shoulders and he couldn't put any weight at all on his injured leg, hopping and skipping. If they met any more old enemies with murder on their mind, or any major obstacle at all, they were done for. Silver at least was walking wounded, but Sam was, as he knew in that same abstract fashion, in a very bad way. This should possibly concern him more than it was, but that took too much energy. He might not mind falling down that dark well. Might not mind drowning.

"We need to get them help," Flint said, taking a better grip on Sam. "You said my granddaughter was coming. Didn't you?"

"I – " Jim was pale under his tan, but he did his best to nod resolutely. "Yes. Geneva is on her way with the  _Rose_ , I'm sure of it. But I don't know if we could make our way down to where she's most likely to land, if she's coming from the east, without being spotted. We have two badly injured men and only one gun. If we're caught up – "

"Aye." Flint looked as grim as winter. "But as it happens. I may know a way."

* * *

Long after the night had fallen silent and they were gone, Jack Bellamy stood on the beach and did not move, regarding Israel Hands' stiffening corpse with a sort of remote, academic interest and not entirely sure that he should not just lie down next to him and wait for a similar fate. It seemed about the only thing he had left, with no Howe and no revenge and no Charlotte and no Sam and nothing else among the few things he had ever grasped for and tried to build anything on. It was a mistake, it was all an immense, turbulent, impossible mistake that had stretched on and on far beyond when it should have had the decency to end. But nothing else had ever had decency, and nothing else had ever ended, so why this?

He had no idea how long he remained there. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. Long enough to become aware of the tide lapping around his boots as it came in, making Hands' body twitch and sway grotesquely, and that, somehow, made Jack decide that no matter how he died, as he was going to do one way or another, he didn't want it to be like this. He might as well walk for a while, walk forever. Walk until he was worn down to a skeleton, like whatever else of the buggers were on this island, and never even notice when he turned to dust.

Jack hunched his shoulders against the wind and took a step, then another, and then another, wading out of the tide rush and up onto the beach. Some of the clouds had cleared, and the panorama of stars above was breathtaking, reflected in the dark water like fat, brilliant crystals. The wind scoured against his face, thin and cold and sharp, whisking the tears away before they could come close to falling. Movement felt better, made the pain duller, pushed it back to the remote, boxed-up corner of his head where he kept it. He was more used to putting physical pain there, rather than emotional, but it served the same purpose.

Jack walked steadily along the coast, following the jagged twists and turns of the shore, until it crumbled off into a mess of broken stones and he had to go inland. He clambered on all fours up the bank, eyeing the pitch-black trees. Doubtless there was something dangerous in there, but he really, truly could not bring himself to care. Yet as he remained where he was, staring at nothing, he thought he heard something further in. Something that sounded like crying. Like a boy crying.

Despite himself, Jack's heart skipped a beat. Had something – if something had gone wrong and they had been separated, or – it was stupid, it was  _stupid,_ but he couldn't stop it. "Sam?"

No answer. The distant, heartbroken sound continued, drifting through the trees, as Jack shifted from foot to foot, debating furiously with himself. Louder, he called, "Sam?"

Still nothing. The crying seemed to be getting further away. If he was wandering around in there alone – of course, trust Captain fucking Flint to be terrible at childcare or looking after his own grandson or anything else, but –

Jack swore furiously under his breath a few times and started in, hands before his face to prevent himself from walking straight into a branch and putting his eye out. The darkness was as thick as soup, and almost as impenetrable. He felt gingerly with his foot before each step, so he didn't plummet off a sudden drop or awake a vengeful spider god or whatever else might be lurking here and waiting to snap him up. He seemed to be going uphill, roughly, but it was impossible to tell. The clearest way forward meandered up and down, only incidentally in concord with whichever direction the crying was coming from. Jack followed it as best he could, until he sensed the presence of something still darker and cooler in the hillside in front of him, a breath of damp air on his face. A cave. He was fairly sure the crying was coming from inside.

He paused, disconcerted for the first time. Made his way to the low opening, bent over, and called, "Hey!"

It echoed away, and the crying briefly stopped. Jack considered, then grabbed a broken branch, a nearby stone, and scraped it against the rock long enough to get a spark. It took a few more tries after that, but he finally fashioned a makeshift torch, which wouldn't last very long and which kept guttering as if threatening to go out altogether, but which would hopefully enough to light his way to find whoever was in there. A cold finger of doubt pricked him; what if it wasn't Sam? Not that Jack could think who else might be abandoning children in this godawful place, but now that he was here, he couldn't quite countenance turning back. He coaxed his torch to as much glow as he was going to get from it, bent almost in half to fit through the entrance, and then straightened up in the narrow passage beyond.

He walked in silence for several minutes, until the crying started up again, just past the next turn. He put on a burst of speed and hurried around the corner, only to discover that sound in this place was deceptive; there was nobody here, and the crying in fact originated from the  _next_ turn. It was only after the third or fourth repetition of this, thinking for sure that he would find it this time, that Jack realized that it kept moving. There wasn't a child here, or Sam. It was something else, some sort of weird trick of the cave, the way the wind blew through, to make it only sound like crying. But if that was the case, why had he also heard it in the woods?

Jack came to a halt, unnerved and uncertain whether he should keep chasing it deeper. It seemed loud now, and close, and with a sudden thrill of horror, he realized as well that he knew what it reminded him of. Not a lost child, not Sam, not a trick of the cave. It sounded like him, the way he used to cry when he was about five or six, for hours and hours up in his drafty garret bedroom of the Howes' respectable townhouse in London. Crying like that after another pitiful supper, another backhand from Howe or a withering remark from Mrs. Howe or the way his half-sister, Laura, would occasionally give him timid, pitying looks but had been long trained out of even thinking of intervening. Had sobbed like that until Mrs. Howe came up one night and informed him that the neighbors were asking funny questions, and if he didn't stop that hideous wailing immediately, she'd switch him until he learned to mind his manners.  _How old was I when I learned to suffer silently? Seven? Eight?_

Jack remained rooted to the spot, arms crawling with gooseflesh, listening to that terrible sound. He wanted to run out of this cave and keep running all the way back to the beach, row back to the bloody  _Griffin_ or further away if that was what it took to escape it. Yet somehow, he couldn't. "Hey," he managed, in a husking whisper. Had no idea what he was doing, or if it would help. It hardly seemed comforting, since after all, he'd managed to destroy everything he had acquired as a result, but still. "Hey. You're – you're going to get out of there, all right? You're going to get out. You're going to figure it out and you're going to leave and… you won't get to kill your father, but Charlotte does, and Charlotte…" He struggled over the words. "Charlotte's your wife, and you loved – you love her, and you escape together. She lies to you, and she… I don't know what's going to happen, but she… she kills him, all right? Howe. He's going to die, and you're going to get out of there."

He couldn't tell if that did anything or not. Felt tremendously foolish talking to a strange echo, to some memory of his own, wondered if he was actually hearing this out loud, or only in his head. "You're going to get out of there," he said again, as loud as he could. "Jack, listen to me."

It seemed further away, or quieter. His torch was burning low, and then, a breath of wind sighed through the cave and put it out altogether, plunging him into total darkness once again. He listened as hard as he could, but he couldn't make out the crying any more. Only silence. Cessation. Stillness. It was just him in here. It was just him.

Feeling as if all the strength had drained out of him, Jack sank onto the floor of the cave. He lay down, curled up onto his side, and wondered if the ghosts were here, but he couldn't see them. He was exhausted beyond rhyme or reason. He closed his eyes, and fell fast asleep.

He had no idea how long he slept, but he finally awoke with dim light on his face. Squinting and grimacing, he peered up at the roof of the cave and saw that there was a small hole in the ground above, admitting a streamer of wan, dusty daylight. He was thirsty as a bloody desert, and by scouting around the chamber, found a pool of water that was so clear he could see ten or fifteen feet straight down to the bottom. Glad that he had not gone blundering after his torch burned out, Jack splashed a little on his face and hands and drank until he felt somewhat refreshed. Said torch-snuffing gust had come from deeper inside the cave, so it had to have another opening, further up. And it was odd, but he wanted to get out of here. He wanted to find Sam, even if Sam wanted nothing to do with him, and – well, Jack didn't have the slightest clue what one would ordinarily do next, but an apology was likely to be involved somewhere. He wanted to see Charlotte too, for that matter, even if he had even less idea what would proceed after that. He wanted to keep going. He wanted to try again.

There wasn't anything to make another torch with, but there was just enough murky light for him to mostly find his way. He took another bracing drink of water, then started back into the passage, climbing carefully. Small stalactites serrated the low ceiling, so that Jack had to keep his head down if he didn't want one of the wee bastards to split his skull, and other intricate, twisted speleothems glittered from hidden nooks and crannies. Sometimes it went completely dark again, but at least not for long. This cave had to extend fairly far under the island. He'd been going for several hours since waking, and still not hit the end of it yet.

At last, slowly, the passage began to tilt up, and the light grew stronger. Jack could make out that he was standing at the bottom of a steep-sided natural cistern, and he had to puzzle for a few minutes about how he was going to climb up. But the rainwater that had fallen down here over years had worn grooves and pockmarks into the walls, and as long as he was careful, it was fairly easy to make his way up. He hauled himself out at the top, and saw that he was standing in a long, low-ceilinged, narrow tunnel, rather like a lava tube. Another fork of it led in a different direction, back under the hill, but Jack started for the light at the end.  _Never thought that was something you'd see in any sense of the word, now was it, Bellamy?_

He had almost reached the opening when he tripped headlong over something, causing him to bark his shins and swear profligately. He thought it was a rock, but after looking down and brushing off the dust, he realized to his surprise that it was a large old chest. The lock on it was broken, and it had been wedged in a small hollow near the entrance of the cave. Jack stared at it, at a loss to work out what it was doing there, until he caught sight of something that he, due to his recent choice of employer, was intimately familiar with. The royal seal of the House of Bourbon. By the Grace of God King of Spain, His Catholic Majesty Philip V –

– anno domini 1715.

A lightning bolt went through Jack from head to heel. All at once, he understood. Of course. Of  _course._ It would have taken hours for one man to dig a hole large enough to bury that chest, and by all accounts, Flint had not had nearly that long to spare. He had come ashore, found this cave, and stashed the chest down it, a quick and almost childishly simple hiding place. But because everyone was so caught up on the idea of  _buried_ treasure, at least the very few who managed to find the bearings for this place and survive the trip, they must have honeycombed the island, digging and digging in search of it, and all in vain.  _You diabolical bastard._ Jack couldn't help but admire it.  _Never bothered to set the story straight, and why would you?_

He paused a final moment. He didn't think he was wrong, but he wanted to be sure. He knelt down, removed the broken lock, and opened the trunk.

A cloud of dust rose from inside, thick as a sandstorm, and Jack coughed and batted it away. But as it dissipated, a strange golden glow reflected on the stone, and he stared in, completely mesmerized. It wasn't full, as otherwise it would have been too heavy for Flint to carry, but it was certainly comfortably occupied. Stacks of fat golden doubloons, heaps of silver pieces of eight, several raw ingots of both. Jewels of every size and color: rubies, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, opals, topaz, black and white pearls, turquoise, aquamarine, and other semi-precious stones. A few rolled-up pieces of paper, half-rotted, that must be bank notes, property deeds, written bonds, or the like, and corked, wax-sealed pottery vials that must be expensive spices and perfumes, perhaps even still good after almost twenty-five years lost in the jungle. Chunks of cobalt, pieces of ivory, bronze collars and bracelets and other jewelry, and that was just what Jack could see. There was doubtless more if he wanted to dig in and have a proper look.

He continued to stare at it, spellbound. This trunk had been worth a small fortune in its own day, and by now, it was impossible to put a figure on its value. If he wanted to haul it out, back down the passage or somewhere else – well, he could likely do that. There wasn't exactly anyone present to register an objection. He had ordered Flint to take him to this cache so he could trade it for Sam, but even one or two of those doubloons was worth more than your average ransom. And yet, it didn't matter. Jack would still have been willing to hand over the whole thing.

After a pause, he rocked back on his heels and tried to think if he was going to try to dislodge it from its hiding place. What he would next do with it, he had no idea, but it seemed almost criminal to walk away and forget it was there. He thought excitedly of the money he could bring back for Charlotte and Cecilia, before remembering that he still had no idea if he was actually ever going to speak to Charlotte again. He  _wanted_ to, he hoped he would, but –

Jack was still occupied in rapt contemplation of the chest, vainly reminding himself to get back to – well, whatever he was going to do – when he was distracted by a sound in the jungle outside. Several sounds, actually, and coming closer at speed. This finally made him shut the lid, much as it pained him, and climb the dozen or so feet up to the entrance, peering out into the thick trees. If this was more mysterious crying, he wasn't going to –

It wasn't. It was a small group of people, moving fast and looking harried. Two men – no, three. One of them had a peg leg, his arm slung heavily around his younger compatriot's neck, and a bloody bandage tied around that thigh. Both of the men almost seemed familiar, though for the life of him Jack had no idea why. The third one –

Jesus. It was Flint. And in his arms, unconscious or dead –

Oh, dear  _God._


	28. XXVIII

Darkness fell with what Geneva could not help but consider as almost vindictive speed. They had barely come ashore, intending to run at least one reconnaissance trip before sunset, when the twilight had already turned hoary violet, the anchored silhouette of the  _Rose_ was a shadowed cutout, and the Irishmen were regarding the woods as if someone had warned them that they might accidentally turn into Englishmen if they went in there. There were no lightning bugs or will-o-the-wisps or other sparks of light in the thick black wall, and even she felt a brief, reflexive chill down her spine. Then she turned smartly on her shirking crew of borrowed secretly double-agent Jacobite ex-redcoats, now there was a sentence to make you think they were trustworthy. "We should make torches. I want to get some sort of look."

"You're sure about that?" MacSweeney, champion of brash talk, was wearing a decidedly leery expression. "This is a right feckin' shite of a – "

"Yes," Geneva said shortly, "and you volunteered to come along, so get to it." She was familiar with the general national unwillingness of the Irish to meddle with what they called the fae, as it was a character trait her father had displayed on more than one occasion, but she herself did not hold truck with such spooky folk tales. She glanced at Thomas. "Is there any chance Grandpa told you enough about the island's topography to hazard a guess at where we are? It's supposed to be fairly long north to south, but narrow east to west. Could we cross it on foot?"

"I think that would be unwise," Thomas said, speaking for the first time; he had been staring into the dimness with a slightly troubled expression. "Especially now. I admire your commitment to getting young Mr. Hawkins back, but we'd be better suited by establishing a camp and posting watches. There could be some of our cohorts' former colleagues here, or there could be… something else. In either event, the terrain is rough and dangerous. Rush in at night, rash and unprepared, and God knows if anyone would ever see us again."

Geneva frowned. "Wait, you… you don't believe in all this rubbish, do you? About skeletons and 'haints' and whatever else has attached to this place, it's just – "

"Indeed," Thomas said patiently. "And certainly, fantastic legends do sometimes grow from barren soil. In my experience, however, this is not often the case. There is usually, however small, at least some grain of truth. And James has told us enough to make me wonder. Things he heard that had no entirely logical explanation, or things he saw. He was quite matter-of-fact about them, and indeed gave them no special attention. It was up to Miranda and myself to decide that if he had not fabricated them altogether, and we did not think he had, then there is  _something_ on this island, and it is better not disturbed. Even if it is only a sustained and unflinching look at one's deepest self, and that all one's flaws and secrets and darkest hurts become somehow magnified against you. Nobody leaves without paying that price."

Geneva was surprised, as she had expected her uncle to agree with her that the Irishmen were being unnecessarily precious about this whole thing. "I'm not scared of myself," she said. "All right, we'll wait here and eat supper or something, but when the moon rises, there might be enough light to start in. I can't agree to sitting on our arses until tomorrow morning, just because you lot are frightened of a few trees."

"Never trust what ya see by moonlight," another of the Irishmen – Geneva thought this one was named O'Shea – volunteered helpfully. "Or at midnight, for that matter, and it'd be close to that hour if we went in. Could nae pay me all the Spanish treasure to go in there at midnight."

"Thank you for your contribution, Mr. O'Shea." Geneva whirled on her heel and went to start collecting driftwood for a fire, as she hoped that might calm their delicate dispositions, as well as marking out to Jim and Silver, if they were in there, where to go. It might also attract Gideon and his non-traitorous redcoats, but Geneva was fine with that possibility. She had made Lord Murray a promise, after all, and was more than willing to carry it out.

They managed to get a small fire burning, as full dark fell and a strange silence with it. Most remote jungle islands would have had a nighttime cacophony just as raucous as the day, but even the lack of crickets seemed unusual. She did not point this out, as the Irishmen were liable to take it as another immediate proof of nefarious intent, but they passed around a canteen and some crumbling biscuits, which was not much of a supper. Ordinarily they might have told a few tales, sung a few songs, but nobody seemed quite up to the job, stealing anxious sidelong looks at the trees looming industriously away behind them. Thomas, for his part, had resumed that troubled stare off into the darkness, until Geneva put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. Are you awake?"

"I'm…" Thomas turned back, blinking hard and rubbing his unshaven grey-blonde beard. "I'm sorry, my dear. I just… you haven't… heard that screaming, have you?"

"Screaming?" Geneva raised an eyebrow. "No, it's deathly silent. Why on earth would you hear screaming?"

She kept her voice light, not wanting to set off a repeated episode of lily-liveredness, but Thomas' expression remained grim. After a pause he said, "There was quite a lot of screaming in Bethlem, you know. That was why they called it  _Bedlam._ I was allowed to have my own room, as the son of a nobleman who had paid handsomely for my confinement, but the walls were thin. The noises at night were… difficult to adequately describe. I imagine it is not unlike the pits of hell. I spent three years there before I was transferred to the work plantation in Georgia. I learned to sleep through even some of the most appalling, hellish sounds one could dream of. One night a man hanged himself in the room next to mine. He… did not die immediately."

Geneva winced. She knew, of course, that her uncle had been forced into the notorious Bethlem Royal Hospital in London by his father, upon discovery of Lord and Lady Hamilton's affair with Lieutenant James McGraw and the resultant scandal and dishonor, the tragedy that had driven the latter two out to the West Indies and the birth of Captain Flint. It was always strange to think of them as the same people as her grandfather and grandmother, who had softened through the years and by their reunion with Thomas to live happily in Savannah together. Just as when he had told her that story about Alexander MacKenzie on the plantation, she had a sense he was sharing another small bit of his past that he had kept from James and Miranda, so as not to replay old, unmendable hurts. She suddenly felt bad for scoffing at his unwillingness to risk the island at night. "Uncle Thomas, I…"

"It's all right, Jenny." He rubbed his face again, with one more look into the darkness. "It's just… as I said, even if the only power this place has is the ability to reflect yourself on you, that is a very dangerous thing indeed. Most of us, if not all of us, have something we've buried deep and hope never emerges again. You are young, and you are brave, but perhaps you can think of those of us who have a few more scars for our trouble."

Geneva shut her mouth, shamefaced. "I'm – I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"Of course you weren't," Thomas said, with a wan smile. "You were thinking about Jim. You care for him very much, don't you?"

"I…" Geneva suddenly thought she would in fact rather talk about ghosts than about this, which must be another hallmark of her mother. Focus on the problem she needed to solve, the person she needed to help, instead of her own feelings, and the vulnerability that implied. She had obviously had intimate gentleman (and one or two lady) friends before, even aside from the idiot Warrington, but when those attachments ran their course (or Grandpa and Daddy frightened them off), she had let them go without outstanding trouble. Never had the feeling that she might be missing something vital of herself if she didn't see them again. However idealistically, she wanted a partnership like Mother and Daddy's, or someone who looked at her the way Grandpa, Granny, and Uncle Thomas all looked at each other. She had grown up in a family where love, true love, was so richly prized and so deeply fought for, and she didn't want to end up with some false or shallow or foolish version of it by accident. Finally she said, "Daddy killed his father."

"So I have heard," Thomas said. "That, however, was not the question."

Geneva squirmed. "I… I do like him, he's… brave, and he's kind, and he… well, he's seen a good deal of my worst side by now, I'll give him that, and not flinched. Also, he's tall." She blushed, annoyingly. "He's helped us out a lot. Of course I'm not letting him die."

"Of course," Thomas agreed. "No one thought you would. All I wanted to say to you, if you will take an old man's advice, is not to be afraid. You aren't of the jungle, I do believe that. But not to be afraid of whatever the possibility is with him, and what it could be. I just want you to be happy, I always have. James, Miranda, and I love you as our own daughter, as well as our granddaughter. Jim Hawkins is a good man. In case you wanted an outside opinion."

Geneva felt her blush deepening, and she tried to look away, passing it off as the glow of the campfire. "I do want to find him," she said at last. "I… I really want to find him."

"And we will." Thomas squeezed her knee lightly. "Trust me just a bit yet, eh?"

"All right." Geneva paused. "You don't… actually hear screaming, do you? Real screaming?"

"I have no idea what it is," Thomas said. "I suspect if we went into the jungle and looked, we would find no discernible source. But I am certainly not being capriciously dishonest."

"Of course not." Geneva looked back at the woods, which were still silent to her ears, then up at the sky. "The moon will rise in a few hours. If you want to sleep, I'll keep watch."

Thomas looked as if he was about to say something else, then nodded. He rolled himself up in his coat and settled on a more or less comfortable stretch of sand, as Geneva had made sure to pitch their camp well out of reach of the tide. It was lapping at the beach a few dozen yards away, inky fingers grasping at the boat as if trying to pull it under – now look, the fanciful, heightened, slightly sinister air of the place was getting to her too. She sat down on a boulder facing the forest, guns in her lap; if in the unlikely event something  _did_ come charging out, she would shoot it, problem solved. That had always been a reliable method before. Mostly.

It grew very quiet, except for muffled snoring. Thomas and most of the Irishmen had managed, despite their qualms, to drop under, and Geneva fought a few yawns herself; her sleep on the  _Rose_  felt more like a prolonged knock over the head than actual rest, especially given how exhausted she was from this ongoing travail. The wind was blowing away from them, which meant that there could have been any number of noises or disturbances happening just down the coast, and they probably would not notice a thing. Once, however, Geneva was almost sure she heard a gunshot, or two. But that was just a trick. See, she was learning.

Naturally, a few minutes later, a hand touched her shoulder from behind, and despite her steadfastly confessed unbelief, she almost leapt out of her skin. Swallowing a scream that was sure to wake the others, she whirled around to see MacSweeney, who looked chagrined, but also slightly vindicated. "And here I thought you didn't believe in ghosts, lass?"

"I don't," Geneva said crossly. "Idiot Irishmen sneaking up behind me without warning are another matter. You're lucky I didn't shoot you."

"I might have enjoyed it if you tried." MacSweeney handed her his flask. "Keep ya warm?"

Geneva was about to retort that if he thought she was going to drink his poison of choice so he could then snuggle up to her on a chilly night, he was sorely mistaken. Then she changed her mind, flipped it open, and took a healthy gulp, which did burn enjoyably all the way down. The moon was starting to creep over the horizon, gilding the dark edges of the island silver, and she nodded at it. "We should get going soon."

"I still think we'd better not."

"I thought you lot were here for the treasure? And a chance of getting back at Gideon?"

"We are," MacSweeney said. "Not to be mixed up with Old Scratch. There's a wood reminds me of this place, back home in Kerry. No matter if it's full day, you can stand under the branches and hear nae a word or sound, or see a glimpse of light. There's a well at the center, and no many how many statues of saints that folk leave to bless that water, they end up cracked and fallen or burned. It's a brave man would drink from that well, or go into that wood past dark. You do, and  _something_ comes with you out of it. My old grannie swore that once, when her husband came home of a winter's night, there were prints of cloven hooves in the snow with his. They barred the door and prayed to Saint Michael and heard the Devil trampin' thrice around the house, trying to get in. Rose the next morning with scratches on the walls, and a cow dead in the barn."

"That's a very spooky story," Geneva said. "And I don't doubt that your old Irish grandmother had plenty of them. You'd get along with my father, he's from Louth, and has rather the same ideas. He always used to call me and my brother to come in if we were playing outside too late after dark, or tell us not to look into the fields, or that sort of thing."

"Ah? Thinkin' of introducing me to the parents, were ya?" MacSweeney winked. "Not that I'd object, lass, but we've only just met."

"Oh, hush. I'm not kissing you. Or anything else."

"You sure? You and I could be a good match, you know that. Both adventuresome types, not overly fond of the feckin' English, and interested in making a fine fortune and seeing the wide world. You drink well, too. Like a lad. Plenty in common, I'd say."

"Thanks," Geneva said. "I think. I'm fairly sure I did not envision running off with a twice-turncoat Irishman whose blood is at least fifty percent alcohol at any given time, but I'll keep the offer in mind." She paused, considered, and then added, slightly less sardonically, "You've been helpful, I'll give you that. And you did a good job to get us here. So, now that we're friends, you'd tell me if you were planning to betray me, hit me over the head if we found the treasure, and run off with it on my ship, weren't you?"

MacSweeney looked insulted. "What would make you think that?"

"You don't exactly have a record of dependable loyalty." Since it was still in her hand, Geneva took another swig from his flask. "I don't think you'd disagree?"

"Aye, well, no, not at that. But could be I just haven't found the right person to stay loyal to." MacSweeney shrugged. "Even King James, well, I'd prefer to give him the money, if we found it. But I'd also not mind keeping it for myself."

"You realize that doesn't actually do anything for your argument, right?"

"Ah. Well." MacSweeney spread his hands. "I'll be fecked, then. Wasn't plannin' to steal your ship again, lass, no. Trust me at least on this, don't go into those woods at witching hour. You won't do your young man any good by that."

"My young man?"

"You weren't talkin' to your uncle about the Pope, now were you?"

"And you," Geneva said, "are a horrible eavesdropper who could at least have the decency to pretend he wasn't listening in on private conversations. Unless you're somehow trying to get me to realize that I should be with you instead?"

"No. Not at that. I think you're not interested in my many charms because you already have a mind for someone else's. But if he dies, I'm available."

"You're a real winner." Geneva rolled her eyes heavenward, but could not suppress a slight grin. "Fine, just because I don't want you fretting like a clerk over the Prince of Wales' account books, we'll wait a few more hours. No more than that, though. At first light, we go."

MacSweeney grinned at her, as if to say that he had taken note of the extra little barb in accusing him of being a stooge for the Hanoverian kings that they were presently thwarting, and to her horror, she found herself actually considering him as a backup option if they left here without Jim. That, however, was instantly dismissed. They were getting him back, or else.

Geneva considered sleeping a bit herself, but she felt wide awake after MacSweeney's infusion of liquid courage, and Thomas could use the rest. She was also unable to shake the suspicion that if she was so irresponsible as to fall asleep, the rest of the party would not bother to wake her and thus delay their recovery mission still further. Their inexplicable aversion both vexed and confounded her, as if they were purposefully colluding to keep her from Jim, though she knew that Thomas at least was not. She didn't hear anything. Just silence.

Despite herself, she must have nodded off, because she woke with a jerk in eerie, iron-grey stillness. A fog had fallen thick enough to cut off sight for more than a few yards; she couldn't see past the beach, much less out to the  _Rose._ Intellectually, she knew it was still there, but this was the first thing to happen since their landing to unsettle her, which was annoying. It was just fog, she'd dealt with plenty of that. There was altogether nothing supernatural about its origin, especially in late autumn on a remote island in the Atlantic Ocean, so she did a few calisthenics to get the blood flowing and then knelt to shake Thomas. "Hey. It's morning, wake up."

He stirred, blinked, and sat up, brushing the sand off. They roused the rest of their traveling party, and Geneva took out her compass to make a reckoning, but it spun and spun without settling, no matter how much she shook it. If there was any visibility, she could try to do it by the sun, but that was presently also out. Finally, as much as she could crib together from half-remembered charts and the last bearings entered in the captain's log, she decided to go with the theory that they had landed at the southern tip of the island, and that the  _Hispaniola_ was most likely north and east of here, hidden somewhere along the dips and weaves and twists of the coastline. She did remember that it was supposed to be a bloody labyrinth of a place, so they might not see the other ship until they were on top of it, and possibly not even then. Still, they had wasted all the time to black cats and broken mirrors that she could remotely stomach. They had a quick breakfast, and then, with Geneva in the lead, they set out.

She had a simple and straightforward strategy of just following the beach north, but it did not take long until it bent inland and got tangled up in trees. She veered them to the right-hand side, where the ocean was, but the rocks were slippery and tilting, some carved by the waves into whorls and arches that stood higher than their heads. This pushed them back into the forest, where they hiked for a while, then descended once more to the coast to check their progress. There was a rock arch here that looked remarkably like the one they had passed earlier, and Geneva frowned. Just to be safe, she picked up a bit of black stone and made a mark on the inside of it, then beckoned them past, up the bank on the far side, and onward.

This time, she couldn't shake the slight, pervasive sense that these trees were familiar. When the arch once more appeared out of the fog, she didn't even need to look for the black mark chalked on the inside in order to realize the truth. This was the same one they'd passed twice before. They had somehow gone in a circle, and made no progress at all.  _What the hell?_

Geneva stood staring at her own mark on the arch, hearing the Irishmen muttering behind her. She could guess well enough what they were thinking, but it was perfectly possible to go in circles in heavy fog, in jagged, unfamiliar terrain, especially when your compass wasn't working for whatever delightful reason of its own. Aye, she was a bit perplexed as to how they had, but if they all lost their heads with ghost stories, they were certain only to exacerbate the problem. Instead, she collected a few large white stones from the beach, determinedly led them inland again, and began setting them down like breadcrumbs. Maybe if she could pinpoint the place they kept taking the wrong turn and doubling back, she could be sure to avoid it.

This time, however, they did not encounter any of the marker stones, and Geneva was just getting her hopes up that they had corrected their mistake, when – impossibly – she saw the arch ahead of them yet again. She stopped in her tracks and let out a shout of frustration. "Are you  _bloody_ kidding me?! We can't have come in a circle, we would have seen the rocks I left!"

"We're nae gettin' anywhere this way, lassie." O'Shea looked at her dourly. "We told you, it's the haints."

"So what, am I supposed to throw some salt over my shoulder? Turn in a circle three times and spit?" Geneva might have done so, if just to appease protocol, but she still had seen nothing to convince her that anything out of the ordinary was at work here. She was much more exasperated by the idea that she could not do something so simple as lead a party in a straight line.  _Unless you're not as good a leader as you think you are. You know you aren't, in fact. What sort of halfway decent captain would sail into a hurricane, get Mr. Arrow killed, nearly take on Israel Hands to replace him, just about get the ship blown up, then lose control of it first to such riffraff as Job Anderson and once more to the bloody redcoats? Be stuck with this lot because you got the rest of your crew killed, maddened to mutiny, or thrown in the brig? Lost Jim? Lost Silver? Lost so much as a damned clue where in the world you are, or how to get anywhere else?_

Geneva firmly ordered that pernicious little voice to shut up, though she was less and less certain that she could deny its conclusions. Striving for an air of cool, dispassionate command of the situation, she turned to Thomas. "So… press on again, or…?"

"Regardless of the logic of how we keep going in circles," Thomas said, "it would appear that we are. There is a certain maxim about the definition of insanity that would be applicable here, so to overcome it, we should try something else. Which by process of elimination, would be going into the jungle, rather than trying to follow the coast. It is, however, your decision."

"I…" Geneva twisted her fingers together. "Maybe I… maybe you should decide."

"I'm not the captain, Jenny."

"Aye, but we… you told Gideon that you were, and I'm not getting us anywhere, so…" Geneva hated to admit that her confidence had been shaken so easily, but that had been a fragile façade from the moment they arrived on the island, trying to hold together the battering that her ego had taken on this trip. "Besides, I thought you didn't think we should go into the jungle?"

"I suppose we could make one more circuit, just to be sure," Thomas said. "But at this point, we must all feel fairly confident in predicting what the outcome will be."

"Aye," Geneva said again, reminding herself that she was the only one here who didn't think that the jungle concealed some lurking evil something-or-other. With that, she raised her voice. "Come on. We're going this way."

Glances were exchanged, as it was reasonably clear that "this way" meant toward the one thing they had all been having conniptions over, and she saw a few surreptitious signs of the cross. Nobody openly disagreed, however, which she decided to take as a victory. She tightened the straps of her sword belt, felt obliged to check again that her pistols were loaded, and turned toward the full and formidable prospect of the trees. Fighting a brief urge to cross herself as well, she squared her shoulders and marched them in.

The jungle closed in quickly. The canopy was thick enough that the indeterminate grey light did not make much of an impression on the deep layer of bracken underfoot, and Geneva could have wished not to recall MacSweeney's tales of cursed woods and devils on winter nights quite as keenly, even if she still did not believe them. They walked single file, Geneva at the head and Thomas serving as rearguard, sometimes having to stop altogether to clear a recognizable path. She kept trying to see if they were managing to outwit the fecking place (as her companions would say) and getting northeast, also known as the direction they were trying to bloody go, by deliberately not going northeast, as that seemed the sort of twisted logic that might just work in this hellhole. But it was impossible to be certain. The forest went on and on, unbroken.

They had been walking for at least an hour when Geneva – faint at first, but then increasingly strong – began to be convinced that she smelled smoke. The trees were far too thick, and they were nowhere near high enough ground for a good vantage point, so it was impossible to tell what direction it was coming from. But either the bloody place had summarily set itself on fire, or someone else had. Even the island, much as it could trick and feign and conjure with the assistance of the fog, couldn't start playing havoc with smells, or at least so she very much hoped. At least she didn't think they were going in circles this time, though it was impossible to be sure. As well, she first needed to ascertain if anyone else had noticed. "Just me, or does anyone else think it smells a bit… crispy?"

"No, I smell it too." MacSweeney took a deep whiff like a hunting beagle, looking around as if to check the undersides of the branches for a fiery glow. "Bloody big to be a campfire."

"I think we can safely assume it's not a campfire." Geneva paused. This was rainforest, it wasn't exactly dry tinder, and therefore shouldn't go up like phosphor, but trying to outrun a wildfire sounded like exactly the sort of fucking idiot adventure they would much rather and more profitably avoid. She looked at Thomas. "Lightning strike? We haven't heard any thunder."

"Possible, of course," Thomas said. "But less than likely. As we know we are not alone on the island, it seems more reasonable to assume that one of our compatriots is responsible. Why, or how much of it they intend on burning… well, who knows."

"Wonderful." Geneva took a slug of water from the canteen slung on her shoulder, tempted to guzzle it all down and then pour it over her head; how was it possible to be this hot in so much dank fog? The ground held in warmth like a wet blanket, so any sweat they broke never evaporated and just stayed there, smothering. "Well, shout if it gets hot. Hotter, apparently."

They nodded and started to walk again, looking sharp. The smell of smoke did not get any stronger, however, drifting in and out, and the opaque wall of fog remained just as impenetrable. Geneva was just wondering if they should risk a shout when one came most unexpectedly from behind her. The cause of it was, as she discovered when she whirled around, MacSweeney apparently vanishing off the face of the earth. There was a large hole where he had just been standing, his compatriots were crowded in to look, and the earth was caved and crumbling in over what looked like a fragile rind of limestone karst. So they had apparently rather literally been walking on eggshells, and Geneva waved at the others. "Hey! Be careful!"

She made her way over as fast as she could go without breaking through and falling in herself, and shooed the Irishmen, who were all larger and heavier to her, to a somewhat more stable-looking perch. Then she peered in. "MacSweeney? MacSweeney, are you all right?"

"Fine." A voice filtered up to her from the dimness. "Fell on me arse right hard, that'll leave a mark for weeks. No but about ten or twelve feet down, though. Looks to be some sort of cave."

"James did say something about a cave system on the island," Thomas put in. "Quite extensive, and he found it easier for navigation than trying to cross the jungle every time. One supposes there is truly nothing to be lost in giving it a look, as he said there are enough outlets and passages and side entrances that he never ran into a dead end. Still, though, going underground poses its own risks. Even more difficult to say what direction we would end up in."

"If we got lost in the dark in some convoluted passage, that would be no bloody good at all." Geneva sat back on her heels, trying to decide. It was all very well and good for her grandfather to go wandering down there, when he was stuck on Skeleton Island for the foreseeable future and had nothing better to do than found its local spelunking club, but they were in something of a hurry, and this diversion seemed unwise. Then again, it was possibly unwise to be anywhere near here in the first place, but then, there you had it. "MacSweeney, what do you see? Does it stay near the surface, or does it go under?"

"Hold on." There was a rustle and a few echoing footsteps, and the hole went quiet for a few moments. Then his voice returned, still disembodied. "Wanders along under the jungle, at least for a way. Didn't get full dark. Suppose we could at least see where it leads."

"Oh, why not," Geneva muttered grimly. Trudging through the jungle had got them no further than their circles on the coast, and if Flint had used these passages during his time here, there might be some mark or navigational aid or other system he had set up to keep track of which one went where. "Anyone have something we can use for a rope?"

A suitable vine was located, cut, knotted around a sturdy root, and Geneva, Thomas, and the remaining Irishmen made a somewhat more dignified entrance than MacSweeney, abseiling down and landing with a thump among the broken bits of stone and soil. Dim shafts of grey light slanted down around them, rock pillars rising impressively in the shadows, giving Geneva the sense of standing in a silent, subterranean cathedral, candles burned out and congregation long fled, leaving it to the mercies of the reclaiming wild. She shivered, thinking that she might actually be persuaded to attend church more often if she survived this, and brushed the dirt off her borrowed breeches. She had flintstones and a small amount of lamp oil in her rucksack, so she'd contrive something if it ever got too dark. "All right, let's go. Watch where you step."

With that, they set off on their third new course, wending carefully through the clusters of small stalagmites that made it nearly impossible to find footing without breaking one of them. Geneva winced at the damage this was doing, but then, if Skeleton Island wanted to fuck with their heads and lead them this way and that, it could not be surprised to get a few dents for its trouble. She kept looking for anything that resembled a wayfarer's mark, especially when they reached the first branch in the passage; one led up, but was narrower and steeper, while the other led down, broader and flatter. She came to a halt, surveying the walls, until Thomas said, "Jenny, here."

Geneva glanced over to see that he had discovered a small etching at about eye-level, carved with a knife and rubbed with torch soot to be sure that it remained visible. Two initials.  _JM._

"James McGraw," Geneva said, as she and Thomas had reached the same conclusion. "It's by the passage that goes up. You do think that is where he was sending us? The other looks easier."

"I trust James," Thomas said simply. "I think we should go up."

Geneva was about to respond that her grandfather's state of mind during his exile here, at least from what she had put together, had been far from sane or stable, and that he could just have easily carved his initials on a whim than to make a note of a safe passage. Still, she had come down here on the assumption that there might be one, and she hesitated a moment more, then nodded. "All right. Up it is."

They squirmed into the new passage, having to climb some of the longer pitches on all fours. The ceiling was very low, giving Geneva – who was used to wide open seas and sky and  _space –_ more than a touch of clammy hands and racing heart. The walls kept scraping at them like clutching fingers, until she had to remind herself it was fine, she could do this, it was fine, it was  _fine._ At least she had Thomas and her boisterous band of semi-reliable backups, so it wasn't as if she was alone down here. That, and –

Once again, Geneva found herself stopping short. "Did you hear that?"

The Irishmen cocked their heads in unison, as ever on high alert for something jumping out at them, but after a moment, the noise that had caught her attention came again. It definitely sounded like footsteps. Someone, or indeed several someones, not far ahead in the passage, and voices. Voices that sounded almost… familiar.

After a pause, throwing all caution to the wind, Geneva started to clamber as fast as she could, Thomas not far behind her. They beetled up a narrow bottleneck of rock, climbed out the top, and found themselves in a higher-ceilinged, broader avenue, smoother and straighter. And coming toward them at considerable speed, hopping and limping and hauling each other, were –

"Oh my God." Geneva broke into a run. "Oh my  _God!"_

She couldn't decide where to look or who to grab at first. There were five members of the party: her grandfather in the flesh, a tall, black-haired young man she didn't know, John Silver hopping on his bloodstained bad leg, and Jim Hawkins, who was holding him up. As well, Flint was carrying someone in his arms, who was so battered and feverish-looking that it took Geneva a full moment to recognize her little brother.  _Sam?_ What the devil, what the  _devil,_ was he doing here – what were all of them doing here, how had they run into each other, how, how,  _how –_ her head felt about to physically explode with questions. All she could do was croak, "Wh…"

"Jenny!" Flint looked as if he had never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life. He got a better grip on Sam and practically sprinted to them, hugging her with his free arm and kissing Thomas, which for Flint was the equivalent of falling at their feet and weeping profusely. "Thom – Thomas, what – you made it, what – how did you find us?"

"You found us," Thomas said, holding Flint fiercely by the back of the neck and touching their foreheads together. "I just paid attention."

"What happened to – " Geneva did not have enough eyes or hands or mouths to attend to this situation in a remotely satisfactory way. "Sam? Sam! Is he – what happened?"

Her little brother shifted slightly, eyes moving back and forth between sunken, sweat-dewed lids, but he didn't wake up. His lower torso was wrapped in bloody, torn strips of what looked to be Flint's jacket, and his right arm was a mess, slashed with an ugly, infected-looking gash. Geneva glanced at Jim, felt something too deep to be relief shudder through her from head to toe, and started toward him as if about to emotionally reunite as well, then stopped, coughed, and held out her hand, feeling absurdly timid. "Mr. Hawkins."

"Captain Jones." He shook it. Gentleman to the last, that was him. "We're bloody glad to see you."

"Bloody, clearly." Geneva looked anxiously at him, then over. "Mr. – Mr. Silver."

"Captain Jones," he echoed, in a distant, formal tone. "Good timing."

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing. It's nothing." Silver coughed, even as his eyes flickered across her, taking in her odd appearance. "Are those my clothes?"

"Nothing else on the ship really practical for running around the jungle." Geneva did not want to be wasting time in pleasantries, needed to know what to do, what was going on. Sam didn't look in a good way at all, and there was still God knew how far back to the  _Rose,_ assuming no more mishaps. She turned to the last member of the party. "And you are?"

The tall, dark young man looked uncomfortable, glancing sidelong at Flint in a way that seemed to suggest he still expected to be imminently expelled from the party. After a long pause he said, "My name's Jack. I… know your brother."

"His name's Jack Bellamy and he's a bloody pain in the arse," Flint corrected curtly. "But he seems sincere enough in his concern, and frankly, I've already shot enough miscreants on this fucking trip, so I'm making an exception for now. Where have you come from?"

"Jack –  _Bellamy?"_ Geneva couldn't help goggling. "Wait – are you – do you know – ?"

"Yes," Jack said, apparently anticipating the question and sounding as if it was not at all his favorite subject, but he would answer for now. "Sam Bellamy was my uncle."

Geneva filed that away with considerable misgivings; she, after all, had reached certain conclusions on Sam Bellamy's control over her family that did not jibe well with welcoming another long-lost member of his bloodline.  _I will have to watch him._ Likewise, she was dying of curiosity as to what the blue hell had gone on and how they had arrived here, but explanations would have to wait for later, or someone else might actually die. By the looks of things, her brother. She turned back to her grandfather. "We're – I think – anchored at the south end of the island. It's been a battle trying to get anywhere. If you want to take the lead, I'll carry Sam."

Flint paused, then passed Sam over, and Geneva hefted him; he was tall, but skinny as a rail, and the fever had wracked him to such a degree that he felt no heavier than your average armful of firewood. A pang of fear passed through her. "Who shot him?"

"Billy Bones," Flint said, very grimly. "Don't worry, he's dead, we killed him. But there's a complication. Even if we make it to the  _Rose,_ the rest of our family is still here. Your parents, Miranda, your uncle Liam and aunt Regina, Jack's wife Charlotte, and even Woodes Rogers' bloody spawn, who has proven to be not quite as terrible as his father, if twice as insufferable. As well, Lady Fiona Murray and Robert Gold are skulking out there somewhere to boot. It's a right carnival. We can't leave without them. Our family, at least. The rest can go hang."

"Wait." Geneva blinked. "Woodes Rogers' son, did you say?  _Matthew?"_

Flint momentarily got an expression as if she might have slept with him in the past and neglected to inform them. "How the hell did you – "

"I'll tell you later," The subject of Eleanor Guthrie's presence, and most likely mortal wound, was definitely a conversation for not right now. "We need to get Sam out of here."

Flint was clearly not about to disagree, and with a final quick grip of Thomas' hands, turned around. He was just about to set them off when there was a loud clatter from the rock chimney, and the Irishmen popped out, looking as alarming as one would expect a lot of sizeable Gaelic berserkers to look in a small underground passage. Flint went immediately for the rifle on his back, and Geneva grabbed his arm. "Whoa! No, no, it's all right. They're with us, sort of. Sorry. I almost forgot about them. What with – well. Everything."

"Almost forgot about us?" MacSweeney, sporting a slight black eye from his now apparently quite lucky tumble into the cave, looked insulted. "How could you do that, lass?"

"Just – never mind. This is my family, actually. Some of them. My grandpa." Geneva waved at Flint, rather awkwardly given that she was still holding Sam. "And my little brother. We need to head back to the  _Rose."_

"What about the treasure?" Trust MacSweeney to get hung up on that point. "We've come this far, and now to be turned away like paupers at the – "

"Fuck the treasure, my grandson's life is in danger," Flint snapped. "Why would I hand it over to you hairy lot anyway?"

MacSweeney looked further miffed, and Geneva could sense that a clash as to who was dominant ginger might be in the offing. She started to say something, trying to remind them that they had no time, but Jack Bellamy interrupted. "Treasure's up that way," he said, pointing. "Left-hand passage, climb for a bit and you'll find it, wedged into an alcove just below the entrance. Large old chest with a broken lock and a Spanish seal. Take whatever you want."

Flint opened his mouth, and then shut it. Finally he said, "I bloody hate you."

"Noted. I'm not your biggest fan either." Jack turned back sharply. "Are we saving Sam now, or do we have to fight about that to boot?"

"No," Flint said, after a final loathing pause. "We're going. As for Jenny's… friends, I apparently can't stop you from finding the treasure, but don't think we're waiting around for you to scamper back to the ship. You can stuff your breeches full of doubloons all you like, but if you don't come back in time, you get left behind. You can decide if it's worth it, but take it from me, this place is not enjoyable as an extended stay. Run along."

The Irishmen exchanged looks, weighing up their options, then started in unison across the chamber, apparently deciding that the risk of permanent residency was an acceptable one in the possibility of becoming really fecking rich. MacSweeney paused briefly to throw a half-wry, half-serious salute to Geneva, as if wishing her good luck, and she returned it. In the next moment, they were out of sight, and she couldn't help wondering if she would ever see them again, oddly poignant despite everything. Then she said to her grandfather, "Get us out of here."

Flint threw one more baleful look after the Irishmen, but nodded, strode to the front of the party, and veered them off down a tunnel running parallel to the one from which they had come. As the rather sorry lot of them trotted at his heels, Geneva could not help but note the fact that it, of course, contained Silver. After all the misdirection and reticence and mystery concerning what had passed between him and Flint on their last star-crossed sojourn here, Geneva was taken aback that it now appeared as if they were bringing him along, no questions asked. Not that she objected – she had sworn to Madi that she would bring him back, after all, and she was truly relieved to see him safe, in a way she had not quite expected. But as her grandfather's burning, several-decade-long grudge against him was not likely to have evaporated overnight, surely there must be more to the story. And yet here they were, escaping together, and Flint barely seemed to care. It could be his concern for Sam, and relief at running into them, but still.

Flint navigated them through several unmarked twists and turns that Geneva would certainly never have picked up on her own, and which led them steadily back through the stone maze. Her arms were starting to burn from lugging Sam; even light, he was a dead weight, and it was awkward to clamber through some of the more cramped sections without knocking him into anything, which clearly was the last thing he needed. On the far side of one such portage, Jack Bellamy stepped up next to her. "Here," he said quietly. "I'll take him the rest of the way."

"Oh?" Geneva eyed him warily. "How do you two know each other, exactly?"

"It's… complicated," Jack said, which seemed to hint that he would fit in quite well with the rest of them in not talking about their feelings. "We've been on an adventure together, that's the shortest answer. It's – it's my fault that he's ended up like this. I'm sorry."

"Just keeping up family tradition, were you?" Geneva hefted Sam protectively. "No thanks. I think I can manage."

Jack's sun-brown cheeks went a slightly darker color. "All right," he said after a pause, as if he had thought better of an initial, sharp answer. "You are his sister. If you're sure."

"Aye, I'm sure." Geneva shifted Sam into a fireman's carry over her shoulder, since they had more room here, and set off again. She might have been glad of a reprieve, but she wasn't about to hand her annoying little twerp of a baby brother off to another Bellamy who had freely admitted to landing him in his present difficulties. God, she hoped he would be all right. She had treated him like every other older sister with a snot-nosed junior sibling, and they had certainly had plenty of fights in childhood that resulted in them being forcibly put in opposite corners and ordered to make it up, but if anyone else laid a finger on him, she would scratch their eyes out. He was innocent and naïve and gallant and adventurous and honest to a fault, one of the kindest and bravest and sweetest people Geneva knew, and if he died here, someone was paying for it and then some. Their life and their family would never be the same again.  _No. No, he can't._

At last, they reached the lower end of whatever tunnel Flint had been guiding them through, and a broad, pebbled opening out onto a deserted stretch of cape. It was quite late in the afternoon by now, and while some of the fog had cleared, enough of it remained that Geneva couldn't be sure which direction the  _Rose_ lay in. Flint took a deep, prophetic whiff, scowled at the still-evident haze of smoke hanging in the air, and then said, "Anchored at the southern tip, you said?"

"I think so." Geneva's arms were screaming and there was a terrible crick in her back, but she did not look at Jack. "Compasses don't work here."

"No," Flint agreed, "they don't. Along with other things. I think I know where we are, though, and which inlet you'll have used. This way."

Geneva shifted Sam one more time, as Jim was looking fairly tired himself. By the looks of things, he had been laboring on a bad ankle, as well as supporting Silver, whose thigh bandage was a fairly alarming shade of red. After a pause, Thomas stepped forward. "If you don't mind," he said, "I'll help Mr. Silver the rest of the way?"

There was a slightly delicate look exchanged between Flint and Silver at that, which both of them immediately tried to pretend they hadn't. Thomas, however, appeared determined, and thus they were forced to yield. Jim carefully stepped out from under Silver's arm, which he then draped over Thomas's neck instead. He must be exhausted, but he still came up to Geneva and said, "Do you want me to carry him the rest of the way? Your brother?"

"I…" Geneva hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Aye," Jim said steadily. "It can't be much further. I can take him."

Geneva bit her lip, then nodded, handing Sam over as Jim got him firmly over his shoulder. Rearrangements completed, they headed off, following Flint for the final leg down the shore, around a bend, and finally into the small, sheltered harbor where they had left the  _Rose._ Geneva had never been so happy to see her old girl in her entire life, still faithfully there despite everything, and she felt a shared sigh rattle through the group. They trucked to the longboat, loaded in, and Jack and Flint, not without a last threatening look at each other, rowed them out across the lagoon to the waiting ship. Hauled up, at last, and all but collapsed.

"John?" Madi had been standing by the railing, watching them tensely, and she reached out as Silver struggled over the edge. "John?"

Geneva had so rarely heard anyone call the man by his given name that she almost couldn't think who she was referring to, but Silver, after a long pause, accepted her hands and let her pull him onto the deck. They almost collapsed into each other, holding tightly, and did not say a word as the others straggled on board. Geneva was just about to order that Sam be taken to her cabin, when she remembered it was occupied. She supposed they might have to double up, not that there was much left in the way of medicine after she had used it on Eleanor. Besides, there was still the question of the rest of their family, and she turned to Flint, who was leaning against the mast with the expression of deepest weariness she had ever seen on his face. "Grandpa, ah – there might be an old… an old friend of yours here with us. We met her in Bristol, and…"

"Mmm?" Flint didn't open his eyes. "We need to sail west, Jenny. I think the  _Griffin_ would have followed the main passage into the south eye, the one where the  _Walrus_ wrecked. We don't want to go down there as well, it's a long and tricky bit of navigation and we'd be pinned in if anyone else followed us, but there's a narrow neck of land that we can cross on foot, that will take us most of the way there. Your parents, Miranda, and the others should be – well, nearby."

"The  _Griffin?"_ a voice said from behind them, sounding choked. "The  _Griffin_ is here?"

There was a brief and slightly horrible pause, and then Flint's eyes bolted open. Geneva cringed, wondering if she should have been more emphatic about her warning, if perhaps she indeed should not have put it off this long, but with the exigent circumstances, there just had not been the proper moment. She was thus obliged to hover uselessly in place, a deeply unwanted onlooker, as James Flint and Eleanor Guthrie locked eyes across the deck of the  _Rose,_ in what must have been their first face-to-face meeting since Eleanor had betrayed the pirate cause back on Nassau, taken up with and married Woodes Rogers, and thus sold out all her friends and acquaintances in that world – including not least Flint, who along with Emma had been one of Eleanor's usual partners in crime, as well as her mentor. She was pale and sweaty and not at all looking well, using the lintel of the cabin door to hold herself up, but her expression was almost desperate. When nobody spoke, she said again, "Did you – the  _Griffin?"_

"I… yes." Flint spoke at last, in a carefully, flatly offhand voice, as if between Silver and now her, he had had about all he could stomach of running into old friends turned personal traitors. "We sailed here with Matthew. He's – just like his father."

"Aye." Eleanor could surely tell that in Flint's mouth, that was the furthest thing from a compliment, but she did not have time to quibble. She looked imploringly back at Geneva. "Please. If we're sailing in that direction anyway, and you're going to look – please take me ashore, if you're trying to find it, find them. Please, I'll – if I can get there, I swear I'll tell him everything about what you did for me, I'll make sure he doesn't report – well, anything back to the Admiralty.  _Please."_

Geneva started to say something, then stopped, feeling decidedly monkey-in-the-middle. She was well aware that Flint must have any number of opinions on all of this, but it  _was_ her ship, and she had made Eleanor a promise. "Fine," she said, after a moment. "You can come. But it'll be a trek overland, and you don't look very…"

"I don't care." Eleanor was struggling to catch her breath even from standing this long, but her eyes burned with an old, unquenchable stubbornness. "I'm so close. I can do it."

Geneva paused, supposed that she could not deny her that, and crumpled her own soreness and tiredness and worry away, out of sight, until this was over; she needed to be Captain Jones, and keep it together. She went to order the anchor raised, ensure that Sam had been put to bed in the cabin now that Eleanor had vacated it, and Thomas went to scour their remaining physics for anything that could possibly help. Jim and Madi had taken Silver off, presumably also to tend to him, and Geneva made her way to the helm, following Flint's terse instructions to aim them westward along the coast. As the  _Rose_ got underway in the gathering dusk, running rather shorthanded after everything but still scraping by, Flint said to Eleanor, "Found someone you could truly love and stay loyal to at last? After Max, after Charles Vane, somehow Woodes bloody Rogers was the one to win your undying ardor and sacrifice?"

"I…" Eleanor started to answer, then stopped. After a moment she said, "I knew what I was doing, marrying him. I thought – if the English were always going to win eventually, as we said – they could always command more ships, more men, more money than we could – I could persuade him to treat you gently. I wouldn't have let him hang you. If you cooperated – "

"I don't doubt you thought you could," Flint said. "Persuade him, that was. You always thought you were much cleverer than you were. But how could that have been an equal partnership, if you – as I suspect – married him since the alternative was rotting in prison and a possible capital sentence of your own? I can almost understand it, so far as it goes. Cozen your captor, entice him to rely on you, feed him choice tidbits of intelligence, until you thought you had him eating out of your hand, and that one way or another, Nassau was still yours. But Gold learned, and we learned, and I suspect as well that you learned, to your cost, that Woodes Rogers could not be controlled. So you wound up shackled to him, living the life of a gentlewoman in England that you had never wanted, bedeviled by his debts and his enemies, looked down on as a traitor by polite society, and forced to still play out the pantomime of love and devotion to your husband, for what at all would you have left if he discarded you? Or did you convince yourself, in time, that the sentiment was real, if only to have some ice-cold scrap of solace?"

Eleanor opened her mouth, and yet again found herself at a loss for a response. At last she said, "I… I did what I had to. Men had always tried to use me, to control me, and at least if I walked into it with my eyes wide open… but Woodes and I, we…"

"Were you?" Flint said again. "So how was Rogers different from all the others you had prided yourself on outwitting and outliving? Or in Vane's case, making directly certain that you did? I heard about that, aye. Later, when I came off the island, and learned what had transpired."

Eleanor flushed. "I never thought I'd see the day when  _you_ would rebuke me for making an end of Charles Vane."

"Vane was at my side in the last battle," Flint said. "And rescued me from Charlestown, for that matter. Unexpected as both of us found it. You, on the other hand, were not. For all his faults, and they were legion, confusion about his loyalty was not one of them. Despite everything, Charles chose to die on his terms, and hope his example served to overthrow the slave masters he had always hated. So yes. In this instance, I find myself sympathizing more with him."

Eleanor's pale cheeks went briefly, patchily red, and she looked down. There was a long pause until she glanced up at him again. "So you've gotten old after all."

"So have you." Flint returned her gaze levelly. "It happens to the best and worst of us alike."

Geneva both wished she was further away from this conversation, and kept leaning in to hear more of it. She guided the  _Rose_ carefully around the tip of the headland, and into the darkening water beyond, another wall of jungle rising up to starboard. "Grandpa, are we close?"

Flint jumped, as if he had momentarily forgotten she was there, and then gathered himself coolly, surveying the rugged, desolate coast. "We should be, yes," he said. "There's a sheltered spot just ahead where we can anchor. Who is going on this little excursion, by the way? You and me, and I suppose her as well, but… I want Thomas to stay here safely, and besides, he needs to look after Sam. Bellamy can make himself useful and help out, but anyone else – "

"I… well, I suppose I'll ask if Jim wants to come." Geneva rubbed her eyes. "That would seem to be about the extent of our options."

Flint looked as if he was about to say something, then didn't. They skimmed up to the promised spot, from whence he said it was a more or less straightforward hike over a rocky spur and down into the eye on the far side, but which still could be an hour or two. Night was falling fast, but it was clear that with Sam in the state he was, there could be absolutely no more delay, not if they intended both to leave here with the rest of their family and get him – well, anywhere in time. As Flint and Geneva were arming and readying themselves, the hatch creaked, and Jim, followed by Silver, emerged on deck. "We'll go with you."

Flint looked extremely leery. "You? Go? With us?"

It was clear that this was directed far more to the latter half of the duo, whose color was somewhat better and whose leg had been more or less stitched up, but still didn't look in particular shape for any more extended fuckery in the jungle. That was not even to get into all the other reasons recommending against his presence, which hung thickly in the air between them. After a very awkward moment, Silver said, "Just in case."

"So what, we're supposed to be slowed down by an invalid  _and_  a cripple?" Flint's nostrils flared. "Fine. Who am I to stop you? Doesn't even matter now."

Silver's lips pressed together, as if that  _cripple_ barb had cut deep, but he wasn't going to let on. The end result of a brief period of intense activity was that Flint, Geneva, Jim, Silver, and Eleanor got back into the bloody rowboat, but before they lowered it, Geneva turned to Thomas. "If we don't get back by dawn or so," she said, "leave without us. We'll figure another way off, on the  _Griffin_ or the  _Hispaniola_ or something else. Like Grandpa said to the Irishmen, we can't tolerate dawdling. Get Sam to safety. You have to promise me."

"Jenny – " Thomas looked pained. "Are you sure? Leave you?  _And_ James? Behind here, again, of all places?"

"She's right," Flint said. "I fully intend to be back. But if not, go."

The two of them looked at each other for a long moment, as Geneva thought for the first time in her life, she might be on the verge of seeing Thomas Hamilton break down. But somehow, one more time, he didn't. Drew a deep breath, and nodded. "As you command, Captain Jones, Captain Flint. We'll wait here until dawn. Then one way or another, we go."

Geneva wasn't sure she could speak, so she nodded instead. Then she signaled for the hoist, and they bumped and clattered down the side, hitting the water again. She and Flint pulled the oars, clipping them across the lagoon at high speed, and they practically jumped out when they hit the sand. Jim offered Silver a hand, but Silver shook his head. "If I have my crutch, I'll manage."

They quickly cut branches and lit torches, and since Flint was going to have to take the lead, Geneva put Eleanor's arm around her shoulders. With Flint first, followed by Geneva and Eleanor, then Silver, and Jim bringing up the rear, they took a final breath and started in.

The climb was steep and dark and slippery. Geneva kept banging her knees and legs painfully, following the bright spot of Flint's torch and trying not to go over and over the amount of hours remaining between now and dawn. Silver was managing to keep fairly close behind her, even though he must be in excruciating pain, only letting on with a grunt now and then. Jim had the other torch, and the trees swallowed them up on all sides until Geneva fancied that those two spots were the only light or goodness or fire or spark of anything in the entire world. The darkness felt as if it was pressing on her chest, crawling down her throat, foul as tar.  _All the warnings about ghosts, about not going in here at night, and here we are._ She wanted to spit it out, but she couldn't. It kept infiltrating into her, deeper and deeper as a rising tide.

About forty minutes or so into their trek, although as ever Geneva had quickly lost all sense of time, Eleanor uttered a small, confused sound, went limp, and slid free from Geneva's shoulder, collapsing into a heap on the ground. Her face was dead white, eyes rolled back in her head and blood seeping through her shirt, and as they halted and crouched down next to her, Geneva shook her hard. "Eleanor? Eleanor. Eleanor. Wake up."

Eleanor struggled to open her eyes, uttering a whimper of sheer agony. She reached out, trying to push herself upright, but her fingers splayed uselessly on the ground. "I'm…" She gasped, coughed, and retched, bringing up blood. "I… keep going… have to keep going…"

Geneva and Flint glanced at each other. It was Geneva who finally said, "Are you sure?"

"I want to see Matthew." Eleanor gulped, then retched again, as Jim put a cautious hand on her shoulder. Her voice cracked, a tear running down her cheek. "I… could have done things better… as a mother… but for all the damages and deceptions… you were right, James. About… Rogers and me. We… weren't happy, after. But we both loved Matthew. I swear we did. We just. We just couldn't." She was struggling and choking audibly for breath. "We couldn't show it, how we should have… please. I want to see Matthew. I want to see Matthew."

Flint's face was very still as he stared down at her, almost unreadable. Then after the world's longest pause, he passed his torch to Geneva, knelt down, and lifted Eleanor into his arms. With a look at Geneva, Jim, and Silver asking them to play along, he said, "I think he's coming right now. Matthew? Matthew, is that you? Hey, over here. Hurry."

"Aye." Jim, who of course had never laid eyes on Matthew Rogers in his life and would not have known him from Adam, peered into the woods. "I definitely think he's coming."

"Is he?" Eleanor's face lit up with brief, desperate joy. Her breath was shorter and shorter, shallower and shallower, and her body kicked and jerked in Flint's arms. It was plain that she could no longer see, and the torchlight was starting to reflect opaquely in her eyes. "Matthew?"

Jim hesitated, then gave his own torch over to Silver. Kneeling down and doing his best to alter his Bristol drawl to a more correct, clipped London accent, he said, "Mother, it's me."

"Matthew." Eleanor fumbled to grasp Jim's hands, tears pouring down her wasted cheeks. "Matthew, I'm sorry. I love you. I – I thought I could. Fix it for you. I couldn't. I've always been. So proud of you. Be good. Be good."

Nobody said a word, so that her rasping, straining breathing was the only sound in the entire world. Jim kissed her hand, and Eleanor clutched hold with the very last of her strength. Smiled up at him, struggled to touch his cheek, but her fingers fell back limply against Flint's arm. She was there for another moment, like a candle still guttering in a light breeze, and then almost as softly, she wasn't. Geneva had a brief sensation of something white and silken flying upward toward the stars, to join the rest of the spirits in this place, and then only silence.

Flint looked down at her, not moving for a long moment. It seemed to take him a visible effort to let go of her, which he did quite gently. After a pause he said, "I suppose we have to go and – leave her. Perhaps cover her with some branches. We… don't have time for anything else."

"I'll bury her," Jim said, his own voice sounding slightly croaky. "I can find my way back to the  _Rose_ from here. You three need to keep going."

Flint, Silver, and Geneva all stared at him. Finally Geneva said, "Are you sure?"

"Aye." Jim took a deep breath. "She was my mother, I wouldn't want someone to leave her lying in a godforsaken jungle. So I doubt Matthew does. And as I said, I'll go back to the ship after."

"You still." Geneva struggled with the words. "You still have to leave at dawn if we're not back. You remember that, don't you? You have to go and leave m – leave us."

Jim looked back at her for a seemingly endless instant, as if this was the one thing in the world he could not possibly bring himself to do, and yet would have to force himself to, if it was really what she wanted. His throat moved as he swallowed. Then he said yet more hoarsely, "All right. I promise. Now – now go find your family, all right? They're the important ones."

Geneva looked at him, aware that this included the man who had killed his father, who he still could be justly raging against, and yet he wasn't, he wasn't even thinking of it. She should likely nod and shake his hand again and thank him, but she didn't. Instead she handed the torch back to Flint, reached up with shaking fingers, and gripped hold of Jim's face. He bent down as she lifted herself on her toes, his arms wrapping around her back, and without a word, they brought their faces together, kissing sweetly and deeply and desperately and silently, and far, far too shortly. She felt shaky, torn apart, only part of herself, as she forced herself to let go and step back. They had to. She had to. And then for the first time in her life, Geneva Elizabeth Jones had that feeling she had always wanted: the knowledge that she could not never see him again and go on without caring, that if she left him, if she lost him, she would forever have that vital bit of her missing. It felt like a punch in the gut, twisting and tearing, and just now, she would give anything not to have it, because nothing could match the pain of feeling it, and pulling back.

And yet. Time was wasting.

Time to go.

She turned away, and started to walk, and Flint and Silver fell in behind her, silent sentinels with their torches. She wondered if, like Lot's wife, she would turn to salt if she looked back, if like Eurydice she would be snatched again to the depths of hell, and so, no matter what, she did not.

* * *

It was perhaps an hour into their search when Gideon began to get suspicious. They had tramped a good deal of the surrounding jungle, searching for any hint or clue or marker where Sam might have passed, where Billy might have selected as an alternate hideout, when the Lord Governor of Charlestown – who thus far had participated fairly eagerly on the chance to come to grips with his hated father – stopped short and stared hard at them. "I begin to wonder," he said, "if you believe you are pulling a clever trick on me. If my father is not in fact anywhere near this island, and you are keeping us going in circles while you look for someone else. Some missing family member of your own, perhaps? I am not in the mood for more pirate tricks."

"Oh, are you not?" Killian said testily. They had heard an ongoing volley of gunshots from not far away, fairly recently, and yet no matter how many times they tried to find a path through, they kept running into dead ends and impassable thickets. It could not be clearer, in his view, that the place was outright taunting them, sensing their desperation and feeding on it, reveling in the fact that it was still more powerful than them, as if to pay them back for daring the waterfall and surviving. This was perhaps an irrationally sinister motive to ascribe to supposedly insentient geography, but Killian couldn't help it.  _If this place is hell, then the sinners have to be punished._ He had already noticed it working on him, in his barely controllable urge to let Captain Hook free, and on Emma, striking at the heart of her fears of abandonment and unworthiness, forcing her to let her mother go over the very edge of an abyss. Miranda and Charlotte were hiding it better, but they must feel that they were being allowed to get to the very point of finding their husbands, the reason they were risking this, and then having it snatched away. Everyone on this island might be fighting their own battle, their essential struggle, that one dark secret or deepest fear that could never be taken away or entirely overcome.  _What is it doing to Sam and Geneva? Or Liam and Regina? Or Flint, or Jack, or Matthew, or any of them?_

In any event, the last thing Killian was in the mood for was more of Gideon's whining, and he spun sharply on the younger man. "Your father actually is here, for your information. We might even stumble upon him one of these days, if you shut your damn mouth and help. We think he and your aunt-slash-adopted-mother-slash-whatever-she-bloody-is landed in the second eye of the skull, so we'll bear back that way. No wonder you're as charming as you are, if she was the one who raised you."

Gideon started into a heated reply, then stopped. After a long pause he said, "I have no affection at all for Lady Fiona. She made my childhood a misery, introduced young boys to our house and told me that they would be my friends, and then used them for her own evil purposes. Used to play sick little games with me, asking which one I wanted to survive more. Told me that my mother had not wanted me, and so left to see the world, rather than be saddled with me. I became a Jacobite because it was the only way I could see to fight back on her, the privilege and power she has built at the Hanovers' court, the lurking voice of malice she has become to the king and the government's ministers – they're all terrified of her, she can buy them off or make them dance like puppets with the right twitch of a string. I'm not sure James Stuart would be much better, but at least the Catholics know how to deal with demons. He could hardly be worse."

Despite himself, Killian had not expected that answer. He and Gideon stared at each other for a tenuous moment, as if Gideon had not intended to be that honest and particularly not to him, but it had bubbled to the fore anyway. After a pause Killian said, less harshly, "If that's the case, then why all this energy on killing your father? Surely she's the one who deserves it."

"That doesn't mean my father is blameless," Gideon said bitterly. "As I am sure you yourself are well aware, Captain Hook. He always loved power, always craved power like other men need drink, and my mother, much as he said he loved her too, always came second to that. That is why I never knew him, and why she went away, wherever that was, long ago. I wish I had known her. Perhaps things would have been different. I was told that she named me after her favorite hero in some book or other. You do not need to tell me that I have, in the main, not lived up to it."

Once more, Killian weighed his words. He nodded at Emma, Miranda, and Charlotte, leading them up a path that bent more or less north, in the probable direction of the  _Titania_ and the explosion from earlier. Fine, then, if this was where they were going, time to get it over with. He had to save his breath for climbing, but at the top of a steep bit, looked over at Gideon again. "Do you remember anything about her? Your mother?"

"Only the very barest bits," Gideon said, after a brief pause. "She was brown-haired, and she was kind, and my main memory is of her crying, though not why. Her name, so I am told, was Belle. Why, have you met her?"

"I don't believe so." Killian felt a brief, genuine remorse, though only fifteen minutes ago he had been ready to throttle Gideon on the spot. "I think I would have remembered if I had. So everything you've done – which has been quite bloody wrong-headed, don't get me wrong – has been… what, for that? To defeat Lady Fiona, and pay your whole godforsaken family what they deserve? That's a hard thing to take on yourself, lad."

"Who else is going to do it?" Gideon kept climbing. "Who else knows who they are, knows the most about  _what_  they are, than me? I'm the one who's lived it."

"Aye, you are, at that." Killian glanced back for the women, but they seemed to be doing all right. "And despite my very justified grievances with your father, I can say I'm sorry for it. You didn't deserve that. No child did."

Gideon glanced sidelong at him, momentarily uncertain, as they waited at the top for the others and Killian gave Emma and Miranda a hand over the steep verge. Charlotte scrambled up on her own, then onto a high rock to get a better view of where they were, and they heard her suck in her breath. Then she slid back down and said, "I think I can see the second eye from here. There's some sort of burning wreckage in it, that was definitely the source of the explosion from earlier. Possibly a ship, but it's hard to be certain."

"The  _Titania?"_ Killian frowned. "Who would be able to pull that off? We damaged it fairly well during the shootout at sea, aye, but – "

"She would," Gideon said grimly. "If it's damaged, and therefore useless to her, she wouldn't turn a hair in lighting the powder magazine ablaze and blowing it to kingdom come. Which means she has some sort of other escape plan, and we'd better hope she doesn't pull it off. Come on. I think I know where she's going."

Killian, Emma, Charlotte, and Miranda exchanged a glance. They had not intended to follow Gideon, they were aware that they had been steadily moving away from the place where they had heard gunshots, and this could still be a long con of some kind, but they had, after all, come out here to find Gold as well as Sam, and to face and settle that threat to their family and their safety once and for all. After only a slight pause, they started after Gideon, climbing through thigh-high weeds, up to the crest of the hill, and down a long slope beyond. Then Killian spotted someone ahead of them, practically running, sliding down the mud, and frowned. Raising his voice, he shouted, "Regina?!"

His sister-in-law turned with a start, saw them, and stopped. Why she was out here alone, or what had happened to Liam, Matthew, and the  _Griffin_ men… Killian fought back a very nasty sinking sensation and reminded himself to stay on topic. As they caught up with her – she looked pale and filthy and shaken and otherwise very unlike herself – he couldn't help reaching out to catch her shoulder. "Bloody hell, are you all right?"

"I…." Regina took a shuddering breath. "I… don't know."

"What happened to Liam and Matthew?"

"They… went down," Regina said. "There was a sinkhole, the  _Titania_ blew, the ground opened up, I nearly… anyway. Gold did what he does to Matthew – betrayed him to his face, that is – and Matthew fell in. Liam… I think he decided that he couldn't stand by and watch it happen again, not after you. He went in after him. I haven't seen them since. The  _Griffin_ men went in as well. I was trying to get back to the ship."

"Liam – " Killian could not help a mingled admiration and annoyance for his big brother's bound and bullheaded determination to self-sacrificially hero the living shit out of every situation that came his way (though perhaps it was a bit of a family trait). "Liam jumped in the hole after Matthew? Don't answer that, of course he did. Bloody hell. Where did Gold go? Is Lady Fiona with him?"

"Aye, they're together. Planning to tear each other apart, no doubt." Regina's lips went thin as she stared at Gideon, clearly unimpressed. "Who's this?"

"He's…" Killian coughed. "He's, wouldn't you know it, Gold's son. Lord Governor of Charlestown, we told you about our small difficulties there. We ran into him on the far side of the island. Long story."

"Gold's  _son?"_ Regina looked as if she couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. "Well, I don't like him already. Just what we need, another…  _person_ to slow us down. What do you want to do, try to kiss and make up with your wretched – "

"The opposite, madam," Gideon said shortly. "Shall we continue?"

Regina eyed him malevolently, but apparently decided to keep further remarks to herself. They started to descend again, bashing their way through a half-cleared trail, until Charlotte, once more in the lead, caught up short, put a finger to her lips, and pointed. "Look sharp," she whispered. "Just there."

Killian crept up next to her, careful not to step on any twigs, and peered through the thick verdure. Sure enough, not a dozen yards away, Gold and a woman who had to be Lady Fiona were standing in the middle of a small clearing, sleeves rolled up and staring each other down, plainly about to embark on some involved death match or other ultimate settlement of their rivalry. While he thought he might enjoy that, and despite the sick jolt in the stomach it had given him to actually lay eyes on Lord Robert in the flesh again, Killian could not quite allow it to proceed uninterrupted. With a look at Emma, Miranda, and Charlotte warning them to stay concealed, he glanced as well at Gideon, and then strolled into the open. "Afternoon, crocodile."

Gold, taken thoroughly off guard, whirled around to stare at him, and their eyes locked for the first time since their last confrontation on the beach on Nassau at night, while Killian had distracted him long enough for the mingled Navy and pirate forces to make their landing. To judge from the way Gold's lip was curling, he had not forgotten that either, and it took him several moments to recollect himself enough to answer. "Well, well. Captain Hook. Such a long time, dearie. Such a… pleasant surprise."

"Save your breath. We both know it isn't." Killian looked at Lady Fiona. "Where the fuck is my son, you evil bitch?"

"I wouldn't know." If she had been likewise caught off guard by his unexpected, almost faerie-like materialization from the jungle, it was hard to tell. "Billy kidnapped him and snuck ashore a while ago. Smart man like you, surely you put that together?"

Killian stared at her, on the very hair-edge of losing the last of his ragged self-control and trying to snap her like a broken spar, but – paradoxically – the only thing that held him back was the fact that Gold was watching, and giving into Hook now, when Gold had deliberately crafted and poked and provoked that man into existence every step of the way, would be the ultimate humiliation. He swallowed instead, trying to force down that ember of searing rage, which didn't do much. Instead, he contorted his face into some crude semblance of a smile. "I actually have a visitor with me, speaking of sons. Someone you might want to see. Lord Murray?"

With what must have been the familial knack for the dramatic, Gideon accordingly made his entrance from the greenery. If Killian had wanted to hurt Gold, it was clear that in this, at least, he had succeeded. Gold had never met his son, but he too must have recognized the resemblance, and known of his existence, if nothing else than because Lady Fiona would have taunted him with it. He stared, at a total loss for words, until he finally said faintly, "Gid – Gideon?"

"It's me. Father." Gideon's lips turned up in a mirthless smile. "Look at the rotten pair of you. I'm somehow not surprised in the least to find you like this. So you can be confident that you have met my very, very low expectations."

Gold still seemed to be completely thrown. "Gideon," he said again. "Son."

"You don't get to call me that, just so you know," Gideon informed him. "Oh, and nor do you, Lady Fiona, not any more. Never again, in fact. I thought I might have a lot to say to you, when we finally met, but it turns out that I don't. Actually, I just want to get this over with." He reached into his jacket and produced one of his guns, cocked it, and aimed. "Goodbye, Robert."

Gold looked stunned enough that he might not have budged at all, just stood there to take it, but that was when, to his utter horror and consternation, Killian found himself stepping in front of him. In front of the crocodile, the man who had ruined his life once and then many times thereafter, his family's oldest enemy. The man who had tried only weeks ago to have them all killed, and who, if he was allowed to get back to civilization, might well do it again. Had just turned on and destroyed Matthew Rogers this very morning, the way he had Killian and Liam so many years ago on Antigua – that man. That man who so utterly undeserved Killian's mercy or his protection, and yet, this wasn't for him. Killian remained there, staring at Gideon and his gun, holding up his hands – the real and the false. "Gideon," he said. "I can't let you do this."

"What?" Gideon stared at him. To say the least, he had clearly not expected Captain Hook to throw a last-moment wrench into the much-deserved assassination of his father. "Are you mad? Of course you can. Move."

"I'm…" Killian wrestled with himself, almost did as told, thought he heard a small, sharp sound from the underbrush that must have been Emma. "I'm sorry. I thought I could. I brought you here and I had every intention of letting you go through with it. But – it's not for Gold's sake, believe me. It's for yours. You said your mother named you after a hero she wanted you to be, and you failed at it. We can debate whether this would be a heroic act or not, but – and take it from someone who has done it, who killed his own father and then his surrogate father, a man named James Hawkins, and many men besides – I don't want this for you. You've lived with the damage of both of them so long. You shouldn't be the one who takes on still more. Not for them. I don't know your mother. But if I did, I'd want to do this for her. For what it's worth."

Gideon stared at him, jaw set, gun still poised. Again, but with somewhat less emphasis, he said, "Move."

"I'm sorry." Killian sucked an unsteady breath. "You'll have to shoot me first."

Another slight noise and rustle that must be Emma, prepared to rush out and stop it if Killian persisted in this madness, putting his own life on the line to protect Robert bloody Gold. He still didn't know what had come over him – but only that if Liam could not stand by and watch the cycle repeat with Matthew, then Killian couldn't do the same with Gideon.  _The sins of the fathers shall be visited on the sons._ And what use was it, what fucking use was any of it, of life, of existence, if anything, if the fathers, who should know better, remained silent?

There was an exceedingly delicate pause. Gideon gripped the gun, as if trying to convince himself that it didn't matter if he had to shoot Killian too, but he couldn't quite get there. The eerie silence was only broken by Lady Fiona, letting out a derisive laugh. "Oh dear. Mr. Jones, are you really taking this principled stand on behalf of my awful brother and his little damp dishrag of a wife?  _Belle?_ She should have cut and run long ago, if she knew what was good for her, but she remained convinced that he could  _change._ Oh, Gideon, sweetheart, you really think she left you? She didn't. Of course she didn't. It was very tiresome. She kept thinking up plots to try to rescue you from my clutches. I had to put an end to it, and to her."

The pause this time was sizzling, fraught as a lightning strike. Then Gold said, "You…  _you_ killed… you killed Belle?"

"Of course I did." Lady Fiona seemed almost bored. "I daresay she would have eventually made it around to reuniting with you, which would just be pathetic. I forestalled that possibility, as well as her constant irritating interference with  _my_ son. Mr. Jones, please do move. I very much want to see this all come full circle. Time for Ickle Goldikins to finally get what he deserves."

Gold uttered a small noise that, despite everything, almost made Killian feel sorry for him. His fists had clenched, his face dead white, as his gaze flickered between Lady Fiona and Gideon, and even, momentarily, to Killian. Then he said, "Belle would have – she did – she loved you very much. More than I ever had the chance to, or ever understood. I'm a weak, cowardly, feeble bastard who loves power and control more than anything, and you're right. You're both right. I deserve this. I'm sorry I couldn't do more for you. I'm so sorry. But I can do this."

Gideon frowned at him, the gun wavering slightly, as nobody seemed certain what was about to happen or what they should do. Gold took a final breath, rocking back on his heels. And then all at once, he shoved Killian aside and charged past him, head down, tackling Lady Fiona head-on and carrying her with his momentum through the shrubbery, past the far side of the clearing, and out to the edge of the cliff, into thin air. They remained suspended, entangled together, for a long, impossibly long moment. Then in the next, they were gone.

Killian and Gideon whirled around, staring at the spot where they had been, and both of them hurried to the cliff edge to look down. There was no sign of Gold or Fiona; the drop was at least a hundred feet, and the spreading splash in the water could have been them, but even though Killian and Gideon watched for several tense moments, nobody surfaced. The only sound was the wind, scraping through the jungle, and the far-off sigh of waves.

"Jesus," Killian said, after a long moment. "Frankly, even if they somehow survived that, I think it's no more than they deserve, getting stuck in this bloody place and fighting each other for eternity. As if anyone ever needed another reason not to come back here." He hesitated again, then looked at Gideon. "Are you all right?"

"I…" Gideon looked (understandably) stunned. "I don't know. I… I don't know. Why did you… you stopped me. From doing it myself."

"Aye," Killian said quietly. "And you may hate me for it, but I don't regret that I did. And I still have business left. I don't know what you're doing, but I'm looking for my family."

Gideon blinked, as if to say that  _his_  family, terrible and abusive and dysfunctional as it had been, had just gone over the cliff before his eyes, but didn't try to stop him. Indeed, he even followed Killian back toward the grove and the women, who were also looking pole-axed. Emma ran out and threw herself into Killian's arms as he came nearer, and he held her tightly for a long moment, chin on her hair. Then she said, "You scared me to  _death."_

"I'm sorry for that. But not for why." Killian kissed her quickly. "Jesus Christ, let's find the others and get out of here. I want to go home, Swan. I want our children back. I want to sleep the first night of my whole life knowing that Robert Gold is gone for good. Come on."

Emma nodded, then took his hand, and they started down the verge, Miranda, Regina, and Charlotte behind them, and Gideon trailing along rather like a lost duckling. Kept listening for any sudden sounds of the Gold siblings' re-emergence, but still nothing. They were gone.

It occupied most of the afternoon to retrace their steps through the jungle and in more or less the direction of the  _Griffin._ As before, they kept hitting multiple dead ends, even when they tried different paths, and Killian had again the sense that the island was taunting them, aware that this was the final chess match and determined not to let them go without a fight. But at last, as the light had long vanished behind the headlands and there was an icy chill in the air, they climbed down into the bone-strewn beach that spread across the shore of the first eye of the skull. The  _Griffin_ was still anchored where they had left her, alongside the ghostly ruin of the  _Walrus,_ and Killian blew out a breath of deep relief. But they couldn't exactly scuttle aboard and bugger off, much as he dearly wanted to, and he turned to Emma. "Think we can run search parties? You there, if you've decided to be useful, you have redcoats, don't you? Minions? If we could get you back to the  _Hispaniola,_ would you help us?"

"I…" Gideon looked as if he had never been asked that question before. "Well, we're now on the exact opposite side of the island from where I left it, so I don't know that's possible at the moment, but – " He stopped, staring up at the jungle. "Wait, did you see that?"

"See what?" Killian turned edgily, not at all sure that he wanted to know what could come out of the trees at twilight around here. He had heard crunching, however, and reached for his pistol as Charlotte did the same; one certainly hoped that their powder had dried by now. But in the next moment, he felt a jarring breath of desperate relief shudder through him from head to heel. The newcomers, absolutely drenched in mud from head to heel, battered, bruised, bloodied, exhausted, and wan, were marching a group of about half a dozen highly disreputable-looking men in front of them, but they were still recognizable. Liam and Matthew.

Gideon made a small noise of confusion as they emerged. "MacSweeney?" he blurted out, staring at the apparent ringleader of the motley band: a tall, hard-muscled ginger brawler who, just by the look and the name, clearly had to be a fellow countryman of Killian's. "The hell are you – "

"That's him, Captains," the man named MacSweeney announced, pointing at Gideon. "Just as I promised ya. The Jacobite ringleader himself, Lord Gideon Murray."

"What?" Gideon paused, then stared, and then got a furious expression. "What are you – ?"

Matthew Rogers, completely filthy and moving his arm as if it had been badly wounded, drew his pistol and pointed it at Gideon. "I have been informed," he said, with icy savoir-faire unshaken even by what must have been the worst day of his entire life to date, "that you have engaged in high treason by the active procurement of support, money, and other material goods for the pretender James Stuart, and furthermore, that you have coerced presently law-abiding citizens of His Majesty King George II into committing treason by furtherly unlawful methods. That your presence on Skeleton Island is in pursuit of its treasure thus to deliver to said pretender, and you have committed various other misdemeanors, nuisances, and general malfeasance along the way. Gideon Murray – it  _was_ Gideon Murray, wasn't it? – you are under arrest. Resist, and I  _will_ shoot you."

Gideon looked around wildly at Killian and Emma, as if they had conspired to lead him into a trap, but neither of them said anything. Matthew raised his uninjured arm to wave at the  _Griffin,_ and within short order, several of the men had made their way ashore on the ship's smallest boat to rejoin their captain, goggling at his poor state of repairs. "What the devil happened – I mean, saving your pardons, Captain?"

"A most unfortunate accident," Matthew said, more tightly than ever. "I owe my life to the brave offices of Captain Jones, however, and I am assuredly grateful for it. My crew, however…" He trailed off, before turning to Killian and Emma. "What happened to the two I sent with you?"

"They – " At that moment, Killian realized he genuinely had no bloody idea, couldn't recall the time he had last seen them, or where the four of them – himself, Emma, Miranda, and Charlotte – had lost track of them. It must have been a while ago, well before they reached the waterfall, and yet he had no notion. "I… I don't know."

Matthew looked somewhat skeptical of this answer, but clearly did not think the moment was right to press for more. Instead, he turned to the men he did have. "Arrest the Jacobites," he said, "and transport them to the ship and into secure custody. I still have to help the Joneses look for their missing offspring before we can depart."

"The Jacobite _s?"_ MacSweeney frowned. "Wait, as in the plural?"

"Yes, as in the plural," Matthew said mildly. "I thank you for your assistance in promising to lead us to Lord Gideon, but that did not mean I suddenly overlooked your own freely confessed treasonous activities. It may be up to a court and jury to offer you a plea bargain, but such is not my place. Now if you don't mind – "

"Wait," MacSweeney said, turning to Killian. "Wait. Geneva Jones – that'd be your daughter, eh? You'd be the father from Louth, the one who shared a mind with mine on ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. Your daughter and your son. They and some cranky-arse old man and other assorted friends – they're here. Or were, at least."

"What?" Killian was jolted. "How the hell do you know my daughter?"

"Well," MacSweeney said. "In all honesty, I was set on her ship by Lord feckin' Gideon here when we took it into custody at sea, but then I decided she was a better wager than he was, so I helped her ambush that oblivious twat Woodlawn and try to get the others back. Any rate, as I said, they're here on the island. Your son didn't look well. He's badly hurt."

"Sam?" Emma went white. "What's the matter with Sam?"

"Dunno," MacSweeney said, "but he was a few good shakes away from meetin' his maker, last we saw of him. See, now, tell your mate with the poker up his arse that he doesn't want to arrest me. Don't ya, eh?"

Killian was briefly tempted to deck the bastard instead, countryman or no countryman, but he turned to Matthew. "I think we need him for the moment. Unfortunately."

He thought Matthew might object, but after a pause, the young captain nodded, very shortly. As the  _Griffin_ men removed Gideon and the other Jacobites, marching them onto the boat and rowing them back out to the waiting ship, Killian spun sharply back to MacSweeney. "You'd better tell us everything you know right now, or I'm the one that will gut you slowly."

He'd thought that MacSweeney might be baldly bluffing to save his skin, but it was true that those were details he could not easily know otherwise, and the Irish charlatan was more or less forthcoming with the story after that. Killian and Emma looked at each other in horror, while Miranda and Charlotte went almost faint with relief for their respective husbands (two, in Miranda's case) but even more worried as a result. On the one hand, the knowledge that the other half of their family had stumbled their way together was immeasurably heartening, but on the other, it was clear that Sam was critically ill, and there was no way to reach him quickly. Emma looked almost sick with fear. "We could – " she started. "We could risk it."

"We just lost two men without a trace earlier, and we have no idea where or how," Killian said. "And we've seen everything else this island has been doing. Believe me, love, I want to find him right now, but it would be faster on the  _Griffin._ If we sail out and around, we have to run into the  _Rose_ somewhere on the coast, don't we? Trying to go back into the jungle at night, after the ridiculous day we've already had…" He looked back at Matthew. "If we let you arrest this idiot now that he's told us what he knows, could we shove off? I don't think there's anything left except our vagrant offspring, and if we know more or less where they are – "

"That's assuming that they made it back to the  _Rose,"_ Emma argued. "We don't know that for sure. They could have stumbled onto something, they could be out in the jungle somewhere – some of us could go overland, and the others on the ship – "

"I don't think so." Killian glanced up at the harbor suddenly and sharply; he had had the unpleasant feeling that there was someone or something else there, apart from the  _Griffin._ He stared at the  _Walrus,_ in case it should now be wakening to unholy animate life as well, but it remained as black and desolate as ever. "Wait. Is there another ship lurking down the passage? Gideon have some sort of hidden signal to alert the  _Hispaniola_ that he was about to be arrested for treason, you think? Come rushing in here and fetch him, that sort of thing?

"Not that I know of." Matthew tried to wipe the mud off his face with his wounded arm, grimaced, and had to use the other one. "It seems improbable. Dare I ask, by the way, if you happened across Lord Robert in your peregrinations?"

"We…" Killian hesitated. "We did, yes. As far as we are aware, we don't expect for him to be joining us. Or anyone, except for the ghosts."

Matthew's mouth went grim. He was too self-possessed to let on exactly what he thought of that, but he certainly did not look to be too broken up. "We will – " he started, then stopped. "We will have to discuss matters in regard to that later. Your brother – your brother was very valiant. I myself might well be accounted one of the spirits without him."

"Aye. Well." Killian glanced over at his likewise muddy sibling, and for the first time in years, after what Liam had done for Matthew and what he himself had done for Gideon, felt as if they understood each other, once more, at last. Almost that same easy and instinctive way as they had on the  _Imperator,_ so long ago, when they could read each other's minds and believe in each other without hesitation.  _And better, because that trust was based on a lie, on him forever overshadowing me, while this is… equal. Too well aware of our own flaws, but our strengths as well. Atonement for everything we could not make right for ourselves, and perhaps, peace._

He started toward Liam, intending to clap him on the shoulder, to take him by the hand, to tell him that he wanted nothing more than to sit down and talk with him for days, for weeks, for months. To make up for all the time he had spent holding him away, to make their two halves again to a whole. It was just then, however, that Matthew, glancing into the dark woods to the left of them, made a startled sound. "I don't – Good Lord, more company?"

Everyone looked around, and then stared outright, just as three battered figures emerged and – finding themselves awaited by a well-armed party – held up their hands reflexively. But as they came closer, they recognized each other, and Emma, Killian, and Miranda all broke into a run, bones crunching underfoot, to clutch at their daughter and husband, respectively. "Sweetheart – " Killian hugged Geneva hard enough to hear her ribs creak, as Emma was kissing her over and over in an apparent frantic rush to make sure she was real. "Jesus, how did you – are you – "

Geneva, for her part, had lost all pretense of adult composure or control, and her shoulders were racking with sobs as she hung onto them. Flint was likewise holding Miranda as if he didn't intend to let go for several minutes, but after a long pause, he said, "The  _Rose_ is just on the other side of the headland. It'll be a long hike back, but we should get started without delay. I told them to leave if we weren't back by dawn, and I expect they will comply."

"We – " Killian blinked, then turned to the third member of their party, who had no one to run and welcome him, and was standing by in silence. "Bloody hell, it's you."

"Aye," John Silver said. For a man who made his living with words, he appeared to have nothing else to offer. "Hello, Killian." He glanced over. "Emma."

Confused but grateful, they nodded awkwardly back at him. Killian wanted to know how in damnation Silver of all people should turn up in company with Flint on Skeleton bloody Island, but then, perhaps it was the least surprising of all the things in the world that he had. He was about to say something else, when the mouth of the dark passage lit up with fire.

Killian dived instinctively at his wife and daughter, knocking them down, even as he heard the whistle and boom of heavy shot.  _Jesus, that was – that was – what?_ He thought back madly to that brief sensation they had had en route to Skeleton Island, that there was someone else out there on the sea, someone following them, but clever enough never to come too close or let themselves be discovered. That wrecked ship in the channel meant that someone else had the coordinates, that they could be dug up again at need, and Matthew had said they had to swing dangerously close to Cuba during their traverse of the Windward Passage. After what the family had done to João da Souza in Nassau – when this was, of course, Da Souza's masters' lost treasure and their most enduring defeat, the one thing they would go to all lengths to get back –

"Jesus," Killian breathed, quiet at first and then louder. "Jesus, it's the fucking Spanish."

He did not need to repeat himself, as it was immediately obvious that he was correct. The Spanish man-of-war emerged from its concealment in the channel with another full broadside, lighting up the night almost beautifully. The  _Griffin,_ vulnerable and stationary at anchor, was a sitting duck, and Matthew Rogers stared at his ship, then at the family, and then at the onrushing foe. Then he said, "Get out of here. Get over the headland. I'll get back to the  _Griffin_ and take them on. Give you a chance, at least."

"What?" Killian had to shout over the sound of the next volley. "Lad – "

"I owe your brother my life," Matthew said. He seemed to be having difficulty with the words. "And what happened with Lord – Lord Robert earlier – you warned me. You all warned me. It is my own fault that I did not listen. And after what I did to your son, and – " He paused, looking at Killian and Emma, then shook his head. "You have been… kind. And it is war time, after all. It is the right and duty of the Royal Navy to fight the Spanish. Go.  _Go."_

John Silver glanced at Flint for a long moment, then started to limp quickly toward Matthew. He did not appear inclined to ask permission to accompany him, or forgiveness; it was merely plain that he intended to do it. Liam likewise hesitated a fractional moment, then said, "You can't command the attack by yourself with no lieutenants. You'll need help."

"Aye." Charlotte moved in from the other side. "Let's go."

Matthew stared back and forth between them for a long moment, then apparently decided that if they were set on such a completely illogical course of action, he could not dissuade them. With no further ado, they set off toward the longboat, but then – almost as loud as a shout in the momentary lull between bombardments – Flint said, "John."

Silver paused briefly, but did not stop. An unspeakably sad smile turned up the corner of his mouth. "You always knew," he said. "You always knew that one of us was leaving the other behind here. I had my turn to do that. Now it's yours. God's pity.  _Go."_

"Liam – " Killian and Regina seemed to speak it almost at once, even as they knew there was no chance of changing his mind, never had been. "Good luck, all right?"

"If we survive," Matthew said, "we will return to Nassau and find you there. Good luck to you as well, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Mr. and Mrs. Flint, Miss Jones. Thank you. And goodbye."

With that, he, Liam, Silver, Charlotte, and MacSweeney ran down the beach to the longboat, as Killian, Emma, Flint, Miranda, Regina, and Geneva remained transfixed for a moment longer. The  _Griffin_ men, even without their captain on board, had started to return fire on the Spanish vessel, but awkwardly, given as they were still a motionless target and did not have the benefit of their full complement of guns. Once more, flashes and strafes lit up the dark sky like shooting stars, and Killian Jones wondered at the strange and perfect beauty of moments like these, of such unimaginable bravery and truth and love, even in the midst of heartbreak. The words of a psalm came briefly to mind.  _From the wings of heaven, to the reaches of hell._

He crossed himself, once and then again. Then he reached for his family, and they ran.


	29. XXIX

The only light in the cabin was the low, swinging lantern, which Jack was absurdly tempted to snatch off the nail and smash on the floor – how could it be swinging so bloody much when the ship was at anchor? If he did, however, it would be completely dark, and that would be no good at all. As well, the small, low flame in the grimy glass, starting to flicker and sputter on its limited supply of oil, felt too uncannily like a metaphor or embodiment of Sam Jones' fragile grip on life. If it snuffed out, so would he, and there would be no kindling it again. If only Jack could shake the sense that something was in here with them, patient and watchful, waiting to unfurl its dark wings and scoop Sam up in them. If only the shadows would go still.

Doing his utmost to ignore it, Jack turned back to the grim scene in front of him. He and Sam's uncle Thomas had laid Sam out on the none-too-clean bed and begun the deeply unenviable task of trying to decide which of his afflictions was the most imminently calamitous. His fever was dangerously high, but if they didn't deal with the gunshot wound, all attempts to lower it might be moot. His arm was likewise badly torn up, the source of most of the poison in his blood, but not itself at the point of critical blood loss. It looked, therefore, as if they had to dig the bullet out, and see if it had hit anything vital. If it had, well… there wasn't the fuck of a lot they could do about that, other than pray.  _If I had ever believed in bloody anything, I might give it a try._  Diligent beatings by the local schoolmaster had not helped Jack remember either his grammar or his catechism any better, but he had still wanted to go. At least it got him away from the Howes.

No. No time for that either. Shaking away the memory of the sobbing in the cave, Jack took a deep breath and told himself to face up to this. "All right," he said to Thomas, vexed to discover that he was keeping his voice down, as if at a deathbed vigil, even though Sam was unconscious and couldn't hear them. "What do you need me to do?"

"Wash your hands." Thomas nodded to the basin of water and the rough chunk of lye soap. "We'll have to see if we can get the bandages off, or if he starts bleeding too much. I – I have done this a few times, and Geneva did it recently on Eleanor, with my assistance. Scrub the forceps, the shears, and the knives too, and wipe them with the brandy. Get whatever clean cloth you can find, a lot of it, some water, and a bowl. And more light, if we have any extra candles."

Jack did as ordered without further question or hesitation. He washed his hands after Thomas had, cleaned and wiped the implements, and set them on a cloth near the bed. The candles he could find were mostly melted into waxen stumps, but he lit them anyway, opening the stern window for whatever fresh air could be persuaded to trickle in. Then he gripped Sam's shoulders, holding him down on the bed in case he started to struggle, as Thomas bent over him, untying the ragged knots of Flint's jacket and carefully pulling the crusted strips of fabric away. It was hard to tell if it was still actively bleeding, or if was all from before. Either way, it did not look promising, and Thomas' lips tightened as he reached for the forceps and the small-bladed pocketknife. "I hope you have a strong stomach, Mr. Bellamy?" A slight hesitance lingered over the last name, the implication that ordinarily, he would have wanted to ask more about that, but it was plainly out of the question at present. "This won't be pleasant."

"I don't care," Jack said. "Do whatever you have to."

Thomas looked at him a moment longer, then nodded. He inserted the narrow nose of the forceps into the bullet hole, carefully fishing to see how deep it might have gone, as Sam jerked, made a strangled, incoherent noise in his throat, and bucked with sudden, alarming strength against Jack's hands. While it was reassuring to know that he still had some fight left in him, this was not the opportune moment for it, and Jack pushed him flat, discovered he did not have enough hands to ensure that Sam quit wriggling everywhere, and fished what looked like a lady's silken stocking – Geneva's, presumably – out of the nearest trunk. He looped it around Sam's wrists as an impromptu restraint, thought that in fancy London brothels they paid quite a lot for this sort of thing, and tied the other end to the wall. Then he moved to hold Sam's torso, feeling a faint, irregular pulse fluttering against his fingers.  _Jesus, that's not good._

Thomas used the pocketknife to cut away some of the torn flesh. "I don't think it's hit the bowel," he said, holding out his hand as Jack put a towel into it, and soaking up the slow, thick scarlet ooze. "And if it struck an abdominal artery, he'd already be dead. It looks to be stuck just under the rib – his breathing is all right, I don't think it nicked the bottom of the lung, but – "

"Well, that's a comfort," Jack said. "His breathing is all right."

Thomas glanced at him, clearly not sure if he was being sarcastic, but not bothering to dwell on it. "Lift him up," he said instead. "If it's lodged behind the rib, it's going to be the devil to get out without making him bleed like a stuck pig. If it shifts or works deeper, there's no way to stop that infection. I also can't break his rib to get the bullet out, or rather I could, but I think we'd all rather that I avoid creating additional problems." As he spoke, he was continuing to probe, never taking his attention off Sam even while explaining to Jack what had to be done. "If I could get a downward slant, and some more light – "

Jack lifted Sam's hips, tilting his wound at a diagonal angle for the renewed insertion of the forceps, and grimaced at the fresh blood bubbling up. He moved the candles closer, shot a vicious look at the still-swinging lantern, and did his best to ignore Sam's faint, gutting whimpers. He hadn't woken up, and his struggling seemed to be getting weaker.  _Come on, you annoying little git. Come on, keep breathing. Think of what you have to do, the stupid questions you have to ask. Come on. Please don't die on me. Please don't die. Please don't. Please._

After a few excruciatingly tense moments, Thomas made a muffled noise of triumph that seemed to indicate he had spotted the bullet, very carefully trimmed back some tissue, and ensured that his hands were completely steady before he went with the forceps to grab it – he could not at any costs accidentally push it deeper. Sam uttered a choking, jagged gasp, body arching off the bed as if he had a demon in him, as Jack gripped his torso so hard he thought his hands would leave marks, like clay. Bloody hell, the boy was skinny. Could practically count his ribs, even the non-shot ones. They hadn't exactly been eating like epicureans on this trip, but still.

Thomas drew out the bullet slowly, bit by torturous bit, easing it and coaxing it from behind the rib, until with an unpleasant grating sound, he pulled it free. He dropped it in the bowl and immediately reached for the pads of cloth that Jack handed him, packing the wound as it began to bleed heavily. It took a while to get that under control, using up most of their clean linen, until Sam was bone-white and very still. His chest was rising and falling, but it was shallow enough that it was hard to be sure, unless you were looking for it. "Christ," Thomas said under his breath. "Christ, don't die on me, lad. I can't be the one to lose another Sam for them."

Jack looked briefly away, both because even he was having a hard time keeping a dispassionate expression and because this had to refer to his uncle, and he did not know how to respond. After a few more unbearably tense minutes, as they battled to stabilize Sam's pulse after briefly and horrifyingly losing it altogether, Thomas tied the bandage tightly, took a moment to catch his breath, and then bent straightaway to make a poultice for Sam's arm. It was clear both that he had had practice doing this, and that he was managing to put aside his own emotions at his nephew's perilous condition, still entirely focused on saving him if remotely possible. Not everyone would have been able to do that, even if they had the relevant skills, and Jack felt a brief spark of dark curiosity, wondering where Thomas had learned how to do that, to shut away everything except what was necessary. He himself had, to say the least, come by it in a terrible way, and he doubted Thomas' indoctrination had been any more pleasant.

Thomas finished the poultice, which he had had to cobble together from their very low stocks of medicine and supplies, and Jack felt a surge of irrational anger at this Eleanor Guthrie woman for using it all before them. Thomas rinsed and debrided the most obviously infected spots on Sam's arm, washed the wound with brandy, spread on some tallow, and tied the dressing into place over it, eyeing the red streaks with deep concern, though at this point it was just dealer's choice of whichever injury might get around to killing him fastest. Jack felt as if something was stuck in his throat, and tried to clear it. "Is there – is there any chance he can make it?"

"He's young and strong and healthy," Thomas said. "Those are all marks in his favor. If we can get the fever to break, he might have a chance of fighting off the rest of it. There are some herbs with a decent febrifuge effect, not that we have many of them, and he's not awake enough to take anything by mouth. Cool baths are more effective for heat illness, not fevers. But we could try."

"Yes." Jack looked up. "We can't move him, though. Or get the dressings wet."

"We can make do." Thomas turned to rummage through the medicine chest one more time, and managed to find a vial of something he identified as dried spiderflower, which did not sound like the most promising name in the world. Thomas shook it into a cup, heated some water to a boil over the brazier, and poured it in to steep a very rudimentary tea. He added a few drops of cool water to make it drinkable, checked it with his thumb, and slid a hand behind Sam's head, very slowly lifting him up just enough to try giving him a sip. "Hey, lad," he said softly. "It'll taste vile with no sugar, but drink it, eh? Come on, have a drink."

It was hard to tell if Sam actually swallowed any, as it mostly ran down his chin, but Thomas kept trying, until by dint of sheer stubbornness he had reduced the level in the cup by about half. Even this, however, would have no immediately measurable impact on his fever, and they needed to get his temperature down one way or the other. So Jack was sent to draw a bucket from the rain barrel, returned to the cabin, and they stripped off the feeble remnants of Sam's shirt, which only still qualified as a shirt because it had not yet fallen off his body. Jack had a sudden memory of changing them on the  _Titania,_ his own reticence to do so because he had not wanted Sam to see his scars, and how far away and unimportant that seemed now. He'd tell Sam the story of every bloody scar on his body, if that was the sort of thing that might interest the nosy wee bugger. Who knew, maybe it would. Sam was odd that way.

Jack dipped a cloth in the bucket and began sponging Sam down with it, face and shoulders and chest, so that the sheets were damp with water, blood, sweat, pus, slime, and everything else that the three of them were pouring into this. About halfway through, the fever turned from burning heat to racking chill, and Sam began to shiver so hard that he almost bit his tongue off, gooseflesh prickling on his arms. Jack grabbed the quilt and laid it over him, tucking it in, and did not quite let go at once, as if by holding onto Sam, he could hold his breath in him as well. He felt Thomas' gaze flick sidelong onto them, but he didn't say anything. The lantern was still swinging, ever so slightly. The darkness whispered.

After a long moment, Sam's shivering eased, and he went slack under the quilt, curled on his uninjured side like a shrimp, his dark lashes casting sooty shadows on the hollows of his cheeks. He was still breathing, at least, and his pulse was very shallow, but more or less steady. It was clear that there was nothing more they could do for him now, except sit with him and try to intervene if he suddenly started to die, and Thomas finally turned away to clean up. He glanced at the hourglass on the desk, with seeming casualness. It ran twelve hours at a time, and they'd turned it two hours ago, at sunset. Ten more hours, and their promise to Geneva and Flint would come due. It would be time to leave no matter what.  _If Sam is still alive in ten hours, and there's any point in taking him anywhere._

"You're – " Jack's own voice sounded strange to him, hoarse and raw. "You're – good. At that. I'm sorry if I… wasn't."

"You were a very capable assistant." Thomas' light blue gaze was kind. "You did as much as I did, and with no training or preparation to brace you for it. You might be very good at it too, if you wanted to be. There's a fine medical school in Edinburgh, for example. All my own experience is quite ad hoc and self-taught, but if you – "

"What? Go to – to university?" The idea was as foreign to Jack as if Thomas had suggested he might like to take up walking on his hands, or breathing water instead of air. "I… well, I can read and write and cipher a bit, but I don't have any more education than that, or any money. I couldn't pay any fees, or – or anything. I'm not a gentleman, besides."

"Well," Thomas said. "If we were to imagine for a moment that costs or difficulties of access were not relevant to the question, what would you like to do with your future? Perhaps it is not training as a physician that appeals to you, but something else. You must have thought about it at some point, surely?"

"I… no." Jack had to fight the fear that this intelligent, cultured, worldly, well-born man – such as he had picked up from Thomas even without knowing him well – was judging him, or worse, taunting him. Trying to make him want something, making him think it was possible, only to throw the verbal equivalent of rotten eggs at him and mock him for imagining that a barely educated, uncultured, angry, rough-hewn bastard son could have such lofty aspirations. That did not seem to gel with Thomas' character, at least the limited experience that Jack had of it, but still. He was not prepared to accept unqualified or genuine kindness or interest, as it had never been shown to him. Briefly it crossed his mind that Thomas could be one of those dirty old men, a few of which he had serviced at the White Swan, who would say sweet things to a handsome young fellow in hopes of a better rate on the bill. Or worse, the ones who actually thought their attentions were reciprocated, and that it was not merely all painted masks and hard cash and lies.

Evidently realizing that he had made Jack uncomfortable, Thomas hesitated, then backed away a few paces, so as not to crowd him or make him feel cornered. "My sincerest apologies if I have overstepped in any fashion. That was not my intention. But you are clearly fond of my nephew, and with your…" He stopped. "Well, if you were planning to stay."

"Stay?" Jack was even more bewildered by that idea. "Why would I do that?"

"If you did not want to, of course nobody would think of forcing you," Thomas said, as if loving families running after Jack and trying to drag him back to their healthy and functional clutches was something he had a recurring problem with. "You have a home elsewhere, then?"

"I… we rented a house in Philadelphia," Jack said. "For Charlotte and Cecilia, while I was… working." That alone was more than he'd told anyone, except for Sam, about his life in ages, and he had once more the impulse to snatch it back. "It's… not much."

"Charlotte?"

"My…" If it had been difficult to define their relationship before, it now felt downright impossible. "My wife." That was straightforward enough, but still dishonest. Not for anything she had done, but because Jack had to wonder if it even existed anymore. "More or less. Cecilia is her niece. We… escaped London together."

Thomas raised an eyebrow, as if clearly sensing a story there, but not wanting to push for it. "As my own marital situation was, for some time, quite complicated, I do understand. So you may be assured if there is anything you worried I would judge, I would not."

Jack looked over at him, startled. After a pause he said, "Sam said you were married to both his grandparents? Something like that."

"Essentially," Thomas agreed. "I am in fact married to Miranda, she is also married to James, and James and I likewise consider ourselves to be. The three of us make our home together in Georgia, and Emma, Killian, and their children moved there as well some years ago. I daresay we do not fit the entirely usual mold for a family, but we have done our best."

Jack took that in without answering. He was the least qualified individual in the world to pass judgment on what a family should or should not look like, and it was clear that the Swan-Jones-Hamilton-McGraw clan loved each other very much, which seemed the most important. There was, however, one thing he wanted to know, much as he pretended he didn't, and it struck at the heart of why they had all reacted like that to him, as Billy said they would, and Thomas' at least somewhat working assumption that he might want to stay. After a pause, having checked to make sure Sam was still breathing, he said, "How does – how did my uncle fit into this, exactly?"

"Ah." Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I don't feel I'm the best person to explain that to you, as I never met him. He had been dead for several years by the time James, Miranda, and I reunited. Therefore, I can only tell you what comparatively little they have said about him, and my own observations as to their reactions when the subject is raised. In short, Black Sam Bellamy was a pirate, but one of the best men of any profession, and James, Miranda, Killian, and Emma all knew and loved him well and have never ceased to miss him. He was for a brief time James and Miranda's lover, while his relationship with Killian and Emma remained that of deepest and most devoted friends. He drowned in a terrible storm off Cape Cod with the loss of his ship, treasure, and nearly all his crew, shortly before the battle of Nassau and the end of the pirates' war. Those four have never entirely recovered from the grief of that loss, and so have managed to move forward only by not speaking of it. Those are the simplest parameters of it." Thomas nodded at the unconscious boy in the bed. "That's why he shares your uncle's name."

Jack was, as ever, not sure what to make of that. The subject of his uncle was never one he had thought of with any pride, or even wanted to think of at all, since it was the very fact of his pirate blood that had made the Howes hate him so much, even and against his existence in the first place. As if he might wake up one fine morning and decide to go traitor, just as his mother's infamous brother had, and there was the devil of an irony in the fact that all their efforts to forestall this outcome had made it come about instead, the epitome of a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was difficult to get more traitor than working for the Spanish (at least previously) while on a notoriously non-civilized island with a bunch of former pirates and present Jacobites, having had quite an argument with your wife who had murdered said Navy captain, so there was that. Finally he said, "So what? Sam Bellamy was your spouses' lover, you – what? Don't mind?"

"James and Miranda thought I was dead for many years," Thomas said. "It is, as yours doubtless is, a long story. And no, I certainly do not grudge them in the least for anything they did, any comfort they took, in that time. As well, it was… with Miranda and your uncle, it was more than that. As I said, they all loved him, but Sam and Miranda loved each other the most, and never had a chance to admit that or enjoy it or have any time with it. They were suited for each other in a way that two human souls so rarely are, and James blames himself for driving Sam away from her by being Flint, by being unable to move past my own loss. That is… difficult to bear."

Jack thought of Flint shouting him on the beach in the darkness, after their spectacular exit from the  _Griffin_ and landing on Skeleton Island.  _Oh for Christ's sake, you fucking bastard! We_ loved _him! All of us! We loved your uncle, and yes, like humans, we saw him in you! I've lived for over twenty years with the guilt, the grief, the loss of him, of knowing what I did to him while he was alive and that it was never what I should have, the fear that my wife wished she died to be with him, that it was me that killed him!_ Jack had been too far gone at the time to care about anything except whether he was going to shoot Flint or beat him to a pulp, or perhaps both, but in case he had thought either Flint or Thomas might be lying, this did at least corroborate the other's account. He likewise remembered how Miranda had asked him to sit next to her at breakfast, right after they had pulled him out of the water from the  _Titania_ , and he had shortly brushed her off. Told them that he didn't have time for any of their unfinished business with his uncle, if it came between that and saving Sam – this Sam, his Sam. And yet, Sam was at death's door anyway, and Jack himself was partially at fault for putting him there.  _To speak of self-fulfilling prophecies, of fighting to avoid that which you then yourself bring about._ Well, everyone seemed to be getting bitten on the arse here, with their fears and their secrets and their failures. No wonder at all that that would include him.

There was a brief, raw silence, except for the faint rasp of Sam's labored breathing. Jack wished more than anything that he could take the pain away, that he could make it right, as he had done that so rarely for anyone, and certainly even less for people he cared about. He was just wondering if either he or Thomas were up for more questions about his uncle, when someone knocked on the cabin door, making them jump. "Mr. Hamilton?"

Jack and Thomas frowned, as they recognized the voice, and had not expected him back for some hours. Thomas got up and opened the door, revealing a bloodstained, dirty, and very somber-looking Jim Hawkins, which must have made both their hearts skip a beat. Realizing that he had given them a scare, he held up a hand, asking them to let him explain. Then he said, "Eleanor Guthrie is dead. She… couldn't make the journey. I volunteered to bury her, and that I'd come back here. Flint, Silver, and Geneva went on as planned."

This sounded like a decidedly bad omen to Jack, if the last patient in this cabin, who had even had the benefit of the  _Rose's_ full complement of medicines and supplies, had rather literally just given up the ghost. He reminded himself that there was no actual correlation, but it sat uneasily in his stomach nonetheless. "So you weren't… ambushed, or the like?"

"No." Jim pushed his tousled chestnut hair out of his face, combing it back with his fingers and twisting it into a ragged ponytail. "She just wasn't strong enough for the journey, after days of suffering. Flint, he was…" He glanced at Thomas. "He was… very kind to her, in her last moments. I know he was angry with her, for whatever she did to him and the others in the past, but he lied to her that her son was there, and she was comforted by it. Allowed her to die in peace, even after everything. I thought you'd like to know."

Thomas looked startled, but also deeply touched. "Contrary to all expectations," he said, "James is capable of great tenderness, and even, at times, of forgiveness. He did care for Eleanor, and in another world, perhaps she would have been his second daughter. I – I am glad to hear he was able to put his old grievances aside, at the end. So the others continued on, you said? Does that mean any change to our plan?"

Jim hesitated, then shook his head. "Geneva made me swear that I would still agree for us to leave at dawn, even if they hadn't made it back. Or even if they – "

At that very moment, an echoing, booming crack split the night, from somewhere on the opposite side of the headland. Both Jim and Thomas startled badly, swiveling to stare at it, though of course they couldn't see anything. But the sound of it caught hard at Jack; he was almost certain he knew what it was, and he began counting under his breath, ignoring Jim and Thomas' anxious queries to each other. Just as he reached ninety, the sound came again, confirming his suspicions beyond a doubt. "Jesus. Those are Spanish guns. There's a Spanish warship over there."

Jim and Thomas exchanged looks. Jim said, "How are you – are you – "

"I'm a Spanish spy, all right?" Jack rose to his feet in agitation. "Or rather, I was. The reason I took up with Sam in the first place was because Governor Güemes of Cuba wanted me to find Skeleton Island. So they – they must have gotten here somehow. I swear I didn't have anything to do it," he added, as Jim and Thomas were looking as if they might glance around and find his knife in their backs. "If that worm Da Souza survived his difficulties and found some way to weasel around losing us, went back to Güemes and talked his way into a new ship, he might have led them right here. Jesus! I should have killed him when I had the chance!"

"I'm sorry," Jim said. "You  _know_ the Spaniards who are, by the sound of things – " he was neatly and appropriately interrupted by another cannon boom – "shooting at them?"

"They're not my bosom friends, no," Jack snapped. "Da Souza is a filthy mercenary out for the biggest profit, I was shooting at him and his mangy mutt the last time we saw each other. After he threw Sam overboard, actually, but never mind that. If he's here with them, it's as much to get back at me as anything."

Jim and Thomas exchanged another look. They, obviously, had loved ones in the path of the Spanish guns – Thomas' James and Miranda, and as for Jim, well, it was obvious to a one-eyed beggar that he had it and had it bad for Sam's sister. The problem, however, was that they had explicit orders from those loved ones to put Sam's life first, and to leave at dawn no matter if they had returned or not. They could try to rescue them, but at the cost of flouting their orders, and almost certainly condemning Sam to death – if the fever and the wounds didn't get him, a Spanish cannonball would more than do the trick. There was a very tense moment as the three men sized each other up, almost as if wondering if it might be two against one, or if Jack was suddenly going to turn on them, as a Spanish sleeper agent planted craftily in their midst the whole time. While they were thus occupied, there was an answering boom of a slightly different tenor, and Jim's turn to cock his head. "Those are Navy guns."

"That would be the  _Griffin,_  most likely," Thomas said. "So if the both of you are correct, and given your past employment I see no reason to doubt it, there is presently a shootout going on between a Royal Navy vessel and a Spanish man-of-war, just on the other side of this island, with numerous members of our family possibly caught in the crossfire. We barely have a crew left, and none of us know the passage down to the eye of the skull. In either event, we would barely make a dent against a trained and heavily armed man-of-war. We all  _know,_ on a logical level, we could not help. But given how terrible the alternative is – doing nothing at all, or leaving without everyone – I'm not sure."

"We have to save Sam," Jack said. "That was what they asked us to do. What you  _promised_ to do, remember?"

"I am aware." Thomas' tone remained calm, but there was a clear warning in it. "Do not, do  _not_ think it was easy for me. To agree to even the idea of leaving James behind here again, not even to mention Miranda, and the rest of the family we have struggled so long to have and to hold – "

There was another fraught pause, once more helpfully punctuated with the distant boom of cannons. Over Jim's shoulder, Jack caught sight of the regal middle-aged African woman whose name seemed to be Madi, some intimate or other of John Silver's, as she must have come on deck at alarm at the noise. "Thomas," she said. "Thomas, did you – "

"Aye, we heard," Thomas assured her. "Our friend here, Mr. Bellamy, believes it to be a Spanish warship. One supposes, alas, that they found no great difficulty in sailing unnoticed down the passage to catch the  _Griffin_  off guardat the end."

"A Spanish warship?" Madi looked alarmed. "Are we going to do something about that, then?  _Can_ we even do something about that?"

Thomas hesitated. It was clear that he was wrestling terribly with his intellectual convictions, his knowledge that their efforts would be futile at best and actively counterproductive at worst, the promise he had made to James and Geneva, and all the other reasons that he should stay here and wait for it to be over, with the desperate need to save the man and woman he loved, and not have to be the one to once more remain removed from the action, never having to face the cost and consequences, and all through no fault of his own. Jack had already sensed that Thomas had been through some long ordeal himself, but in a different way, and a wealthy, aristocratic gentleman was not a feared commander or valiant soldier. Not like Flint, not like Hook and the rest. He was only a gentle man who had fought his wars with books and quills, who was able to pull a bullet out of his nephew's rib without flinching, and tell Jack about Sam Bellamy, and how he had loved everyone Thomas cared about, how they had loved him too, and lost him. It was Thomas's heart before those guns, and Jim's, and – if Silver was there – Madi's. Against that, what the bloody hell right did Jack have to demand anything from them, especially given the way he had treated the rest of the family before? Nothing, technically. Not a damn thing.

And yet. True as all of that might be, and was, Jack Bellamy was not an altruist. He did not want them to lose their loved ones, obviously. He wasn't a monster. But if they sailed in there in some misguided attempt to take on a Spanish warship head to head, Sam Jones would die beyond any question, and Jack simply could not countenance allowing that to happen. Perhaps the combined weight of all the other lives outweighed this one, in the great scale of things. Jack, however, was not the one holding it, was not charged with tallying it up, and so he did not give a single damn.

And yet.

"You stay here," he repeated. "You wait until dawn. And then you leave."

" _You_  leave?" Thomas had caught that. "As in I do? Is there some reason that is no longer inclusive?"

"I…" Jack turned to stare at the dark island again. He could see an eerie orange flash in the sky from the next Spanish barrage, which was returned in earnest by the Navy guns. It was impossible to say how the battle was shaping up, if there was any room for proper maneuvering and tactics, or if the two ships were essentially floating across from each other and seeing who could blast holy hell out of their opponent first. "I know where the treasure is. If I go – if I tried to make contact with the Spanish and draw them off, give them what they want – "

"It's at least a two-hour hike over that headland," Jim said. "By the time you got there, the battle would be over one way or the other. And I doubt the Spanish would be in a conciliatory mood to see you again, especially if you double-crossed them and scarpered when you were supposed to be the reason they got here in the first place. I know why you'd think of it. I do. But it's a bloody stupid plan and it won't help anyone, and that's my frank opinion."

"No one asked for your frank opinion," Jack pointed out. "And I thought the lot of you might not mind being rid of me, anyway. I've hardly been an asset to the cause, or… much of anything."

"Jim is…" Thomas closed his eyes and breathed hard, clenching his fists. "Jim is right. It would get you either lost in the jungle or killed outright, and while I know you can't see that or grasp why just yet, that matters too. Not just for who your uncle was, but for you. You are not merely some disposable piece that can be cast aside without care or concern. Your life matters."

"No," Jack said bleakly. "No, it really doesn't."

Jim, Thomas, and Madi glanced at each other, as if waiting for the other to say something. Perhaps they thought he was bluffing, or being dramatic, or trying to force their hand one way or the other, but to Jack, it was a simple and obvious fact. Even if Sam lived, he had no obligation or expectation of forgiving Jack, and while Jack didn't actively want to die himself, he also couldn't see the point in going to any special effort to stay alive. He was shit with people, he had no talents aside from punching and/or shooting them, he'd managed to alienate Sam's family from the get-go anyway, and his entire existence had been one struggle after another, a long, drawn-out war that he had never had the luxury to stop fighting. Much as he had been angry with Charlotte for the news about Howe, it was almost, if he was being honest with himself, a relief. Now he didn't have to keep going, didn't have to keep up this strange, violent, shadowed half-life, could know that Howe was no longer wreaking his terror and misery on the world, that it was finished. Could just go somewhere quiet, and lie down, and go to sleep.

"Fine," Jack said, after another moment when nobody spoke. "If you're not letting me try to reconnoiter with the Spanish, you're agreeing to uphold your end of the bargain and leave when you promised. What's the closest place we could get to – Nassau?"

Jim, Thomas, and Madi looked at each other again, then winced as a particularly thunderous salvo rocked the dark lagoon. Thomas said, "Perhaps we should take a vote."

"That would be a bloody farce," Jack said. "Since we all know you're voting against me, and since you're trying to talk yourself into something you already know would be terrible. I thought you were a smart man, Hamilton. So why – "

"Be that as it may, I  _am_ a man." For the first time, Thomas' voice turned dangerously close to a growl. "Do not think that I can be provoked forever."

"Between the two of you," Jack said, "James has the whole making catastrophic decisions out of angry passion bit down. You don't need to follow in his lead. Trust me, I've had quite a go at it myself. You think that's what he wants, what Geneva wants, even what that one-legged bastard wants? Us to go die for them too, breaking the promise they must have known it was desperately difficult for you to make? Fuck you. They asked you, they  _begged_ you to save Sam. And Sam is all I have left. If you're trying to convince me that my life is worth anything, if you want him to think that  _his_ life is worth anything instead of forever the shadow of my dead uncle, maybe you should start by fucking  _proving_ it."

Jack was aware that these three had had nothing to do with Sam Bellamy, nothing to do with the delicate family dynamic that remained as a result – not even, in Jim and Madi's case, much to do with Sam Jones himself. He still didn't care. He just knew that he was not going to let them do this, was not going to let the family they had fought years and years to have to be broken apart by one stupid, split-second, emotional act of idiocy. As that had been his métier recently, there you had it, irony. But he'd admitted it to himself. That had to count for something. He would have given anything to have this family, and Sam had it. Jack wasn't losing it for him.

After a very long pause, Jim was finally the one to answer. "What – exactly is dawn?" he asked. "First light? Full over the horizon? If it's foggy again, and we don't spot it exactly – "

"Dawn is dawn," Thomas said. His voice sounded ragged, almost punched out of him, close to tears. "But Mr. Bellamy is right. We have to hold to our word. We have to be ready to go."

They looked at each other for another long moment, in which it became clear in the echoing silence that something was wrong. "The guns," Jim said. "They've stopped."

"They must have gone into the channel." Thomas rubbed his face. "They can't shoot at each other directly in there. It's a cat-and-mouse game now, trying to draw the other out from any point of concealment, be sure that the other is completely disabled and can't follow or pursue, and destroy any boats launching. This is not a reprieve. It is the intensification."

Jim and Jack, the ex-Royal Navy sailor and ex-Spanish agent, knew enough of their old side's tactics that they could not disagree. The continued silence pounded in their ears, in their heads. Jack continued to stare at Thomas, and while Thomas was white as a ghost himself, he stared back levelly. Gun smoke was beginning to obscure the moon, and there was a scent of distant rain. The wind keened.

"Very well," Thomas said, after a final pause. His voice was very quiet, as if to speak any louder would, at last, break him. "Let's go into the cabin and wait with Sam."

* * *

Emma, Killian, Flint, Miranda, Regina, and Geneva had been climbing for almost half an hour, struggling up the dark bluffs with their only light being the flash and roar of the ongoing shootout behind them, the  _Griffin_ and the Spanish man-of-war exchanging broadsides and trying to get something resembling a better position on the other. Both of them had to be battered from so many close-range salvos, and thus neither could afford to remain out in the open for much longer. For Emma, and doubtless also for Flint, the two who had been here during the last pitched naval gun battle in this place – between the  _Walrus_ and the  _Queen Anne's Revenge,_ with the timely final appearance of the  _Rose_ to save the pirates, thanks to Silver's trickery – this was bizarre almost to impossibility. It had been Woodes Rogers shooting at them last time, and it was Woodes Rogers' son who had just told them to run for it, that he would stay behind to give them a chance. It stabbed Emma in the heart like a thorn. That everything over so many years could have happened to them all, between then and now, and yet one last time (or so she devoutly hoped), here they were. In this place, with these people, and this war.

When they reached the high ground atop the bluff, they paused for breath, having barely slowed in their headlong rush, and turned back just in time to see the Spanish man-of-war vanishing back into the channel, and the  _Griffin_ hot across the lagoon in pursuit, distant yells just audible from its deck. The Navy ship was badly pummeled, chunks torn from the sails so that it looked half ghostly itself, and several fires were smoldering in its beams. Everyone watched it go, as if knowing full well that it was the last time they would ever see it, and Regina shuddered from head to toe. Emma reached out a hand. "You could – " It was too late to make this offer, far too late, but still. "If you want to go back down there and try to make it out with Liam – "

"I…" Regina swiped her forearm roughly across her eyes. "Well, I did try, and he wouldn't let me. But your…" She hesitated. "Your son. Sam. He's hurt. That's what the idiot said."

"He… yes." Emma's throat closed. "I don't know what we… if there's anything we're going to be able to do."

"Well," Regina said. "I don't have all my supplies, so I… I can't be sure. But I have a few things with me, and – " She glanced up at Miranda. "Liam and I found her in the wreck of Charlestown, and… I don't know for sure if it was anything I did, but I did all the vodou medicine I know, and she's still alive. If you can get me to the  _Rose,_ I can try it with Sam."

"Would you?" Emma stared at her desperately. "Would you do that for us?"

"I… I have been angry," Regina said, after a pause. "For a long time, for a very long time, about you and Killian taking Henry and Geneva away from us. I thought – well, I almost thought that I wanted you to lose your son too, so you'd know how it felt. But I don't. I want to do better. I want to redeem myself. I couldn't have Henry, but – I can save his brother, maybe. I've only had Liam for so long, but now… perhaps this was the chance I kept saying I wanted, to have a family again. That was… that was why I decided to come along."

"Henry's waiting for us back on Nassau," Emma said. "For all of us, and for you too. He was happy to see you, remember? He was so happy. If we can bring Sam back, alive, and tell him that you did it – but you don't need to earn his love, Regina, you have it. Henry's just like that."

Regina looked back at her, dark eyes brimming with silent, unshed tears, and then she nodded once. Turned her back on the eye of Skeleton Island's smoke-washed skull and the bobbing debris, on possibly the last mortal relics of her husband, and once more, started to climb.

They labored over the headland as the fog began to thicken. The scent of gunsmoke mingled with a damp scent of oncoming rain, and no matter how much they looked back at the dark channel, the cliffs were too high to catch any glimpse of either the  _Griffin_ or the Spanish ship. They had to be in there somewhere, unless they had made it out to the open sea, but they would likely have resumed the shootout if they had. Besides, Skeleton Island was not about to let its prey go so easily, not when it had a reputation to protect: that no ship that came here ever returned. In fact, as far as Emma knew, the  _Rose_ was the only one that had, and that was the ship they were trying to get to now. Just as well, she could feel the island starting to fight them. They could not discern a clear path and kept hitting dead ends, the moon vanished in the fog and smoke, and the temperature was dropping fast enough to see their breath. Emma had the constant sense that something was watching them from the trees, skittering in the branches. She looked at Flint, who was staring down into the dark hell of forest without a word. "James?" she said. "James? Which way do we go?"

"I'm…" Flint, for the first time, looked frightened, and that rattled Emma more than anything else. "I'm not sure."

Miranda was shivering hard enough to hear her teeth chattering, and Flint reached out automatically to pull her into his side, but his attention was still fixed on the abyss. Then they heard a hiss and a sigh, and spotted the onrushing shadow of the rain racing before the storm, bending the trees in its wake. The next instant, it hit them with drops as fat as liquid mercury, scything and freezing and blinding. The bit of ground they were perched on immediately turned into a ruin of mud, and Emma almost lost her footing as they struggled to move off it. For a terrifying moment, the entire island yawned vertiginously beneath her, until Geneva reached out, snatched her by the wrists, and gave her a desperate heave up with the rest. "Thank you," Emma gasped, clutching at her daughter. "Thank you, we – "

Geneva started to answer, clawing her sodden dark hair out of her eyes, but at that moment, something snatched at her ankle, gave her a jerk, and she stumbled, lost her balance, and went over, kicking and struggling and straining to hold on. Her parents and grandparents alike shouted, all grabbing out for her, as Geneva looked down, yelling at something – someone. "Get off," she screamed. "Get  _off,_ you – "

Emma, Killian, and Regina were the first to thrust themselves head and shoulders over the ledge, and so see what, or rather who, had Geneva by the ankle. Emma knew at once, horribly, who she was. All her paint and powder was washed off, all her jewels and frippery and airs and graces gone, and she looked exactly like the sort of night-ghast that would be lurking here: wrinkled and demon-eyed and furious, old and spitting and terrible, torn and bloodied and screaming. "You!" Lady Fiona Murray shrieked up at Killian. "You took my son from me!  _You took him!_ And now, I am taking your daughter!"

Emma managed to grab Geneva's wrist, but Lady Fiona hung on with mad tenacity. "You think I spent so long studying all those dark arts for nothing? All those potions and tricks and secrets? Robert's dead, you see. He's dead. I held him under and I watched him drown, I watched all of it. It was wonderful. He was trying to kill me, but he only destroyed himself, because I'm the stronger one, I'm the smarter one, I always have been. You can't kill me. Come on now, sweetheart. Geneva, that's your name, isn't it? You are going to be  _very_ helpful to me."

"Get off my – " Flint fumbled for his rifle, but it was a very bad angle for a shot, and he couldn't take a chance on it rebounding. He tried to stab down with the musket, but it didn't have a bayonet. Geneva's grip was starting to tear loose, and Flint lunged forward to grab her other wrist. "Jenny, I've got you, I've got you."

"No, you don't." Lady Fiona was gasping, but still hanging on, tenacious as a barracuda. "Let go, Geneva, darling. You know you deserve it, don't you? After everything you've done?"

"You evil, mad bitch," Regina said. "You know what, I'm almost glad you're alive. I didn't want to leave here without strangling you for what you did to Liam, and now I'm actually going to get my chance. Flint, Emma, on three, pull – one – two –  _three._ "

As she said it, Flint and Emma pulled with all their might, Regina plunged a hand into her bodice, whipped something out, and threw it in Lady Fiona's face. Whatever it was, it made her shriek and clutch at her eyes, and in so doing, she was forced to let go of Geneva's ankle, crashing onto the slope beyond. Regina knotted her skirts up and jumped after her, fierce as a raven, landing and locking her hands around Lady Fiona's throat. The old hag clawed back, getting her own stranglehold on Regina's neck, cracked fingernails drawing blood as they fought. For several moments it was almost evenly matched, but Lady Fiona was quickly getting the upper hand, literally. She slammed Regina over and over into the mulch, as Regina's eyes were rolling back in her head. Another moment, and it would be too late. She would –

"FUCK YOU!" A shadow backed up, took a running start, and jumped off the edge. "GET AWAY FROM MY AUNT, YOU BITCH!"

With that, Geneva landed hard, struggling upright in the slashing rain, and drew her cutlass. Grabbed Lady Fiona by the hair, jerked her head back, and – just as Regina's gurgles were starting to weaken – swung the blade as hard as she could, as she likely ever had in her life. She remained holding onto Lady Fiona's head, but her body was now some feet below it, and Geneva was covered in blood, her face stark and freezing as ice, a still point among the tumult. At that moment, anyone at all who saw her, who felt that pure and perfect knowledge shudder through them, would not be in any doubt whatsoever that this was Captain Hook's daughter.

After another pause to be quite sure that the witch was in fact dead, that decapitation was one thing even she could not recover from, Geneva sheathed her sword without bothering to wipe it clean, knelt down, and helped Regina sit up. "Are you – ?"

"I'm…" Regina sounded as if her windpipe had almost been crushed, and her voice was a hoarse rasp. "I'm all right, but she – but she – "

Hand shaking, she pointed, and Emma felt her stomach turn over. Several cracked vials and other broken bits of pottery were visible on the ground where they had been fighting, their contents spilled or scattered, until she realized in horror that those were all Regina's vodou medicines, the one thing they had counted on as a last resort to save Sam. Lady Fiona had yelled at Killian that he had taken away her son, and she wanted to make him pay for it in kind – she might have been just averted from getting his daughter, but indeed, she might posthumously have her wish with his son. Emma stared at it, as if that might make it go away, as if the broken pieces would spring together, as if she would somehow be seeing anything but what she was. "You have to have something left," she said. "You have to have something."

"I don't…" Regina looked shaken. "I don't think so."

"We need to go." Flint's voice broke in urgently. "Jesus Christ, we need to go. Come on."

Geneva and Regina were hauled back over the precipice, the lot of them completely soaked and freezing, and Miranda's strength, after coming so long and so far, was fast giving out. She took a step, then stumbled, sprawling headlong, and couldn't get up. "I… I'm sorry."

"No. No. Come on." Flint went to his knees next to her, his voice and face utterly, impossibly tender, as if nothing in the world existed except them, and the rain, and the storm, and the trees and this, the necessity. "Miranda. Miranda, my sweet. Come on, I have you."

Shuddering, Miranda managed to lift herself on an elbow long enough for Flint to pick her up, and she collapsed against his shoulder, half-conscious, as he balanced her weight, staring down into the rain-lashed night. Then he shouted, pointing. "There. The  _Rose._ I see her, there!"

Battered and bloodied and gasping, the family began the final descent through the wilds of Skeleton Island, lightning flashing in the hammerhead of clouds above and a crack of thunder rattling their teeth. They could just see the  _Rose_ where Flint had indicated it, still waiting by the southern side of the headland, its lanterns a tiny speck of light against the immense, howling darkness. They slipped and skidded, banging into rocks, ripping the skin off their hands and knees, as Emma kept desperate hold of Killian and Geneva helped Regina. Carrying Miranda, Flint still managed to lead the way, despite the rain and wind lashing his face, and the sense that this was the island's final, roaring defiance, that all this madness and chaos centered on him, whirling down like a devouring maelstrom. It had killed Captain Flint once before, after all, and it was not intending to let him leave alive again.

At last, they stumbled onto the shore, the storm surge frothing whitely around their knees, and looked for the boat that Flint and Geneva had left on the beach – just in time to see the next wave rip it loose and carry it out to sea. It was impossible to say if the  _Rose,_ despite being just a few hundred yards away, had any idea that they were there. They were shouting at the top of their lungs, but the tumult stole their voices, and the lanterns weren't bright enough to pierce the slashing, blowing spray. The boat had caught on a rock several dozen feet offshore, banging and clattering, and with the pounding it was taking, it would shortly be reduced to matchwood. There was no way they could swim for it, and otherwise they might be forced to stand here, in sight of salvation but unable to reach it, until dawn broke, and the  _Rose_ sailed away. Emma had absolutely no doubt that there would be fog, or mist, or fallen trees, or something else to prevent them from being seen from the ship.  _We have to get that boat back. It's our only chance._

Flint staggered to a halt, braced against the tide, and beckoned to Geneva, who fought her way up next to him. In the course of a short, screamed conversation, Geneva took hold of Miranda, handed her off to Killian, and then waded back out next to her grandfather, the two of them sharing a brief, intent look. Then at once, they dove into the water.

Emma's heart caught in her throat. She could do nothing but watch as their heads bobbed and struggled, almost vanished, then reappeared, hauling the boat off the rock and grabbing the oars as they were about to wash away. Flint and Geneva vaulted in, bailing for all they were worth, and rather than make them try to navigate back in, Emma felt a mad certainty seize her. "Come on!" she screamed. "We have to get to them! Now!"

Emma, Killian, and Regina, Miranda clinging to Killian's back, charged into the waves at full speed. The boat was pitching and rocking, but Flint and Geneva were keeping it afloat somehow, trying to steer it as close as they could without catching a breaker and being flung ashore. The cold water pummeled Emma in the chest, crashing over her head in salty torrents, stinging her eyes. Another stroke, and another, and another, kicking ferociously. Then her nose banged painfully into wood, she tasted blood in her mouth, and Flint and Geneva were hauling her in. She collapsed on the bottom of the boat as they repeated the process with Killian, Regina, and Miranda, locked in the oars, and began to row like hellfire and damnation.

The  _Rose_ grew closer and closer. All of them bellowed at the top of their lungs, there was a scuttle and stir on the deck, and a dark figure waved madly at them. A few moments later, a rope landed with a wet smack on the side of the boat, Flint grabbed it and knotted it to the front hoist, and they were hauled in, bumping against the side of the ship, as another rope splashed down and Geneva tied it to the rear hoist. An eerie lightness took hold of them, the dark ocean fell away, and they swung in an island of fog. Then they were on the deck, juddered to a halt, and Emma remained where she was, too dizzy to move. Rain lashed onto her face like soothing tears.

The next moment, Thomas appeared out of nowhere and pulled Flint and Miranda out of the boat, one in each arm, as a tall, chestnut-haired young man did the same with Geneva. The rest of the adults toppled out, soaking wet, whereupon Emma and Killian blinked to discover said young man currently kissing their daughter as if both their lives depended on it, which indeed they might. Geneva clearly had no objections to this whatsoever, eyes closed, arms around his neck. Then she let go and snapped instantly back into captain mode. "Raise the anchor! We are getting out of this bloody place  _right the fuck now!"_

The capstan creaked, the chain clattered, and they aimed the ship out to sea, as the wind and rain continued to howl, but in a lesser, muted way the further they put Skeleton Island astern. The waves were still rough enough to make it hard to walk, but Emma didn't care. She slid sideways and grabbed hold of Regina. "Do you have anything left?  _Anything?"_

"I don't – " Regina shook her head, lips white. "It's all gone."

Emma and Killian battled their way across the slippery boards to the cabin, opened the door, and blew through like a tempest themselves. Inside, two people jumped to their feet: Madi Scott and Jack Bellamy, looking decidedly worse for wear. All Emma's attention, however, was on the bed, and the prone, silent form in it. "Sam. Sam. Sam! Oh God. Oh, baby. Sam!"

She rushed to it and bent over him, staring down at her youngest child for the first time in months, and the remnants of her fragile hope almost drained out of her on the spot. Sam was not entirely dead yet, but that was the only thing that could be said for it. He did not stir at all at the sound of his parents' voices, eyes closed, face still and cold and colorless. His breathing barely disturbed the quilt tucked over him, his black hair loose and tangled on the pillow, as Killian uttered a choked sound and grasped Sam's limp hand in his, cupping his son's face with his false one. "Lad, bloody hell. Bloody hell, Sam, it's us. Sam. Sam!"

"We have to head for Nassau," Emma said, sick with fear. "At once, we have to – "

"He can't make it to Nassau," Madi said. "There is only one other chance. Both of you, in your journey. Have you met a Captain Nemo?"

"Nem – " Emma felt it like a bolt of lightning. "Jesus. When he left us on Barbados, he said he was going to find the Maroons. Lancelot and Ursula and – "

"Merlin." Killian's face went dead white. "Jesus Christ, Merlin, he was the one who saved Liam's life, back on the Maroons' island." He whirled to Madi, the daughter of a Maroon chieftainess herself, who had met the  _Walrus_ for the first time when it was driven out to sea to her people's remote island. "Do you know where that is? Where Merlin is, where Nemo went?"

Madi paused. Then she nodded. "Yes," she said. "I know the place."

With that, without asking them where Silver was, or what had happened, or anything else, she pulled her shawl up, opened the cabin door, and went out into the night. They heard her call for Geneva, and then the door shut. Emma stared down at Sam in a horrified trance, as if she could physically keep breathing for him, her fingers locked with his. She was aware of Jack watching the three of them without a word, until finally he got up. "I'll…" he said. "I'll leave you with him, then."

"Thank you." Emma lifted her head, even as tears were blurring her eyes, to turn to him. He looked very tired, and very old, and very heartbroken. "Thank you for taking care of our son."

Jack tried to say something, but he couldn't. Instead he looked at them one more time, looked at Sam, and nodded as well. Then he turned, and went out into the rain.

Emma and Killian climbed into the narrow bed on either side of Sam, holding him and cuddling him, trying to keep warmth in his body, rocking him, humming. Emma thought again of that story she had told Matthew, how Sam had cried and cried after his smallpox inoculation as a baby and they had been up with him all week, fearing that they had made a terrible mistake. That you would trade anything, do anything, tear down the gates of hell with your bare hands, if it would stop your child from suffering, if it would save them. If they could just make it better. If they could just make him open his eyes. There was no treasure, anywhere else, she cared about.

Emma lost track of time. Nothing else in the world mattered to her just now, and she wasn't going anywhere. They kept sailing, or at least she supposed they did, as the waves continued to rise and fall and sweep away beneath them. The noise of the storm dimmed, then faded, and finally went still. Sam's breath was getting shorter and slower, and sometimes there were pauses between one and the next, when there was a knock on the door. "Mr. and Mrs. Jones?"

Emma looked up slowly, not recognizing it, until it opened a crack and she saw the chestnut-haired young man, who – as Killian got a good look at him – regarded him with an inscrutable expression. Killian himself went pale. After a moment, sounding very shaken, he said, "You – you must be Jim Hawkins."

"Yes." Jim's voice was cool and level. "Never mind that, though. We're here. At the island that Mrs. Scott was taking us to. We need to get Sam ashore."

After everything, the absolute last bloody thing Emma wanted was another remote, mysterious island, but perhaps this one would mend the damage the last one had wrought – part of it, at least. She was terrified that Sam would die the instant they moved him, and they eased him as cautiously as possible into Killian's arms, wrapped in his quilt. Then they made their way across the cabin and out into the complete, mirror-like stillness of the predawn hush.

As they stepped out onto the  _Rose's_ deck, Emma almost tripped over Jack, who had been sitting against the outside wall of the cabin and staring off into space. However, he scrambled to his feet when he saw them, then paused. "I – if you'd rather not – "

"No," Emma said quietly. "You can come."

Killian carried Sam step by ginger step to the longboat, the way he had held him on the day he was born – after they had untangled the cord from his throat and he had started to breathe and gave a good wail and they all let out an impossible gasp of relief and joy. They had joked about it later, that he had gotten himself in trouble from the start, and yet twenty years later, once again, here they were.  _Please,_ Emma prayed.  _Please, please, please._

Geneva, Jim, Flint, Miranda, Thomas, Regina, and Madi were already waiting in the boat, as Killian, Sam, Emma, and Jack made their way in. It was clear that no matter how exhausted and terrorized they were by their own adventure on Skeleton Island, there was no way in hell that they were going to be anywhere else than at Killian and Emma's side for this. The hoist bumped, and they were lowered into the glassy, mist-steaming water. One more time, without a word, Flint and Geneva started to row.

A few minutes later, they bumped up against land: a spit of thickly green peninsula that smelled rich and wet and living, As they climbed out of the boat, Emma looked up and saw two figures emerging from the fog, clearly waiting for them. She recognized the first straight away, having seen him only weeks ago, and as for the other, though it had been several decades, not a day appeared to have passed; he looked exactly the same. Nemo and Merlin.

Madi climbed out and went straight to speak with Merlin, as Nemo offered the others a hand onto shore. "So," he said quietly. "You found your son, I see."

"Aye, but he's…" Emma clutched Nemo's arm. "You have to – please. Please help us. We'll – anything you want, you said you don't want money, but – "

"I don't," Nemo said. "But I am not the chieftainess of this island. That would be Ursula."

Killian went pale. "I know she… I know she isn't terribly fond of me, and I haven't given her any reason to be. But bloody hell. Please don't take it out on my son. She was willing to let Emma stay last time for Geneva's sake, before she was born, so – "

"Come," Merlin said from ahead of them, startling them all. "Follow me."

The family glanced at each other, then did so, trailing after the  _houngan_ like a gaggle of baby ducklings after their mother. There was a path that led deeper into the trees, giving Emma a brief and desperate moment of hoping that this place was nothing like Skeleton Island, and she looked awkwardly sidelong at Merlin. "I, ah… it's… good to see you again?"

"Not how you would have wanted to, I know." Merlin inclined his head. "It has been a long time, Emma. The world is changed."

Emma supposed it had, at that, and hurried to keep pace with him, glancing nervously over her shoulder again and again at Sam and Killian. She was just about to ask Merlin if it was very far when the path bent down into a clearing and across to what looked to be Merlin's hut. It was quite small and smelled faintly of incense, tables crammed with books and manuscripts and jars and pots and quills and strange instruments, an hourglass, a star chart, a piped alembic and crucible, and all other manner of curiosities. She looked at Merlin with desperate hope. "You have something here to save him, don't you?"

"This?" Merlin said. "This is the object of my study, and it is most interesting indeed, but there is no miracle curative. I alone cannot do anything for him."

"You saved Liam," Killian insisted. "You and Tiana did something, conjured some kind of spirits. My mother spoke through her, I went into some sort of trance, and then he was alive. You have to do that again."

"I didn't save him," Merlin said. "You did. If you wish, yes, I can try to summon the  _loa,_ but that is very dangerous. Your son is all but gone. If I open the door to death, he could easily fall through on the instant, and never return. Are you sure?"

"We have absolutely no other bloody options." Killian's voice was on the very verge of breaking. "I am begging you, mate.  _We_ are begging you."

Merlin paused, looking around at the family. Then he looked at Madi, considered something, and nodded. "Very well," he said. "I will make a fire. Put him there."

Emma and Geneva went to find some cushions and blankets, which they put on the ground by the firepit, and Killian laid Sam down on them. It was no longer clear if he was breathing. Miranda, Flint, and Thomas were holding each other's hands tightly, Regina was silent, and when Geneva had finished making her brother comfortable, she went and almost fell into Jim's arms. As for Jack, he had neither moved nor spoken through all of this, eyes fixed on Sam as if he was the only person in the entire world. Merlin made his preparations, struck a spark to light the wood, and scattered some herbs in the fire, speaking in an unknown language. Nemo stood to one side of him and Madi to the other, motionless and beautiful, the fire flickering on the bold lines of her face like a carven statue. It occurred to Emma just then that Madi must never have expected Silver to return, knew that he would not, knew there would be no end but what it was. And yet, for Geneva's sake, Madi had still brought them here.

The fire burned higher and hotter, throwing odd shadows on the walls, shadows that seemed to move without discernible source or caster. Merlin spoke something that sounded like a command, raising his hands, and a cool breath of air sighed over them, indeed as if from the draft of an opened door, into somewhere rarer and stranger and sweeter. Emma thought she heard something that sounded like waves, lapping on a quiet shore. The fire flickered again, and then all of a sudden, Jack went stiff. He shook his head as if confused, then stopped, and before their eyes, something in his face changed. He lifted his head, and in a voice that was not his own, he said, "Jesus. It's – it's you."

Every hair on the back of everyone's neck stood up cold. Emma felt as if she was punched, dazed, dreaming, had heard it wrong, as the entire family stared at Jack – but it wasn't Jack anymore. Killian finally was the one, who, stammering, managed to get the word out. "S-Sam?"

"Killian?" Sam Bellamy said.  _"Jesus._ Killian? Bloody hell. Killian. Emma?" He turned his head. "James? Mir… Miranda?"

There was no sound except the flames, and Miranda's choked, gasping breath as if she was about to faint. Flint looked as if he was holding her up, none too steady himself, and Thomas looked confused for only half a second. Then the realization spread over his face, and he put a hand to his mouth. Geneva looked flattened and terrified, Jim equally baffled, and Regina stunned. Killian and Emma remained rooted to the spot. Emma answered at last, her voice the tiniest croak. "Yes, Sam. It's us."

Sam Bellamy's eyes lit up with wild, unspeakable joy. Miranda moaned, a noise halfway between euphoria and agony. With that, she let go of Flint, got to her feet, and moved slowly across the dirt. Clearly terrified of being shut down again, of being turned away, for this to be the most terrible trick yet, but even more unable not to try, she came to a halt before him. "Sam?"

"Miranda." Sam raised his hands, cupping her face, staring into her eyes. "Miranda, bloody hell, love, it's you. Jesus, you're beautiful. You are the most beautiful thing that I have ever seen."

"You're lying," Miranda whispered. "I'm sixty-five, you ridiculous man."

Sam smoothed her silver hair out of her eyes, brushing his fingers lightly over her cheek. "How are you?" he asked. "How – Jesus, how have you been? All this time?"

"I'm…" Miranda reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. "I'm happy. I have James and Thomas again, and our family. Emma and Killian, and their children. Henry and Geneva and…" She stopped, horrified, as if she was taking them away from the reason they were here. "Christ. Have you – did I – is he – ?"

"It's all right," Sam said. "I'm with him right now. It's a bit of a walk back, though, and we have some time. I want to see you, I want to see all of you. Are you happy, then?"

"I am," Miranda whispered. "We have had a rich and long and wonderful life, even after everything. But I love you, I love you, I  _love_ you, and I miss you. I miss you every day. I miss you every time I open my eyes, and as the last thing before I sleep. Sometimes I wake up with James and Thomas asleep to each side of me, and I'm so happy I can barely breathe, and I would trade it for nothing, not anything anywhere. But I can't help myself. I still ask the darkness if you're happy. If you're safe."

"I'm safe," Sam said. "I miss you all terribly, but I'm safe. It's all right, my darling, my dearest, my dearest heart. It's all right. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. I always will. I never stopped. I never did."

"I never did." Miranda was breaking down in earnest now, tears rolling down her cheeks like rain, but her face was dreaming, dazzling, brighter than life or death or all of time and space itself. "I… suppose you would like to see the others too, wouldn't you?"

"Aye." Sam smiled. "That I would."

Miranda stood on her tiptoes and kissed him with all her might, and he held her tightly, his fingers combing through her hair. Then, because only Miranda would have had the strength to do it, rather than keeping him all to herself for these impossible few moments, she stepped away, and Killian and Emma moved up. "Sam?" Killian's voice cracked. "Can you see me, then?"

"I can." Sam raised his hand and brushed Killian's cheek. "You look just like I remembered. Bit more grey around the edges, but it suits you."

Killian made a small, shattered noise and wrapped both arms around Sam's neck, hugging him desperately, as they swayed on the spot without speaking. Then they let go, and Sam gazed at Emma in the same delight. "Emma, love. It is you."

"It's… you, I… I don't…" Emma clutched his hands. "Sam, we miss you. We miss you so much, so much. All of us. And we should have said more, we… we should have, but we didn't, and… I have to show you. I have to show you your goddaughter. Gen – Geneva?"

Geneva had not moved, staring in complete and blank shock. She still didn't move, in fact, even as Emma held out a hand to her. Then Jim gave her a nudge, and she got up, walking numbly toward them. Clearly with absolutely no idea what to do, she held out her hand, rather stiffly. "You… is this some sort of… what, ventriloquism?"

"I have no bloody idea what it is," Sam said. "Somewhat beyond my pay grade. Christ, you're beautiful. I only saw you when you were a baby. I was there when you were born. You were so small. God, we've missed so much together. I wish more than anything that we'd had it. You and Henry and Sam the younger." He laughed, sounding halfway to tears himself. "There was so much I wanted to teach you, to give you, to have with you. We were cheated of it, and I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you think of me as a result. I'm sorry."

Geneva opened her mouth, then shut it. Despite herself, her lip was trembling. "Why did you leave them?" she asked at last, almost in a whisper. "They loved you so much. Why did you leave them?"

"I'm sorry," Sam said, sounding anguished. "I'm sorry. I – I had to. But I would give anything,  _anything,_ to be with you now, with them. I hope you can believe that, in time."

With that, he leaned down, took her face in his hands, and kissed her on the forehead, taking in the scent of her, resting his chin on her head. Geneva shook silently, not in any haste to pull back even if she clearly still didn't know for the life of her what was going on. There was a long, depthless pause. Then Sam said, "James?"

Flint didn't move. He had barely seemed to breathe. He couldn't answer.

"James?" Sam said. "James, for fuck's sake. Come over here right now."

After a pause, and a nudge from Thomas, who had to help Flint up, the two of them made their way across to Sam. "Hello," Thomas said, with really astounding composure for the situation. "I'm Thomas Hamilton."

"Sam Bellamy." Sam took his hand and shook it, and then pulled Thomas into a brief, rough embrace, which Thomas, still flattened, returned. "Thank you," Sam said. "Thank you for everything, all right? Take care of them for me."

"I – I do." Thomas' voice wavered. "Thank you. For being there for them when I wasn't."

Sam paused, nodded, and then hugged him again. Finally, he turned to Flint, who still hadn't managed to utter a word. "James," he said quietly. "I'm not mad at you."

A raw, rasping breath shuddered through Flint from head to toe. He reached up a hand to touch Sam's cheek, and Sam caught it and held it tightly. "I'm sorry," Flint whispered at last, in a voice none of them had ever heard from him. "Sam, it's my fault you're gone."

"No." Sam leaned down, resting their foreheads together. "It's not. It's not, and I'm not angry. You forgave Silver. You forgave Eleanor. It's in you. It always was, and you have to know that you merit it too. It's all right. You can let go of it. Let it go back to the sea."

"To the sea." Flint looked up at him, eyes almost blind with tears. "To the sea with you?"

Sam hesitated, then nodded. "The water is wide," he said, half in a croon. "I cannot get o'er. Neither have I the wings to fly. Give me a boat that can carry two, and both shall row, my love and I."

At that, there was a small, stunned sound from Geneva, and she stared at Sam disbelievingly. "That… that song," she said. "I've always… I've always liked it, I was thinking about it. Because I wanted to bring Daddy and Uncle Liam back together, originally. Did you…?

"Aye," Sam said. "It was one I always felt an affinity to, myself. I never told your parents that, by the way. They never would have been able to tell you, but I suppose you knew somehow. So then. Sing the rest with me, eh? Come on.  _A ship there is and she sails the sea, she's loaded deep as deep can be. But not so deep as the love I'm in, I know not if I sink or swim."_

Geneva managed to croak the last few lines with him, as Miranda stepped back in, hungering to be near him while she could. Sam looked down at Flint, and kissed him on the forehead as well, as Flint reached up to grip his wrists. "God," he breathed at last. "God, I miss you."

"I know." Sam let go of him with one hand and held it out to Miranda instead, pulling the two of them into his arms for a long, spellbound moment. "But I'm safe, and so are you, and you don't have to grieve me anymore, all right? You'll see me again one day. I'm here. I always was."

Neither Flint nor Miranda were able to make a sound. The thrall remained. Then Emma said faintly, "Did you come all this way, and not even get to meet your nephew?"

"Oh no," Sam said. "Jack's with us. He's walked back with us. We've had a good conversation. We're almost here now, and…" For the first time, he seemed at a loss for words. "Tell him, all right? If for any reason he doesn't remember, or if he thinks it's only a dream. Tell him everything. Tell him how sorry, how very sorry I am. That I would have done anything to save him, if I knew. If I lived."

"I know you would have." Emma could feel her own composure rapidly fracturing, chest heaving. "Sam, don't go. Please. Please don't go. Not again."

"I have to," Sam said, with utmost tenderness. "I'm dead. I'm only borrowing Jack, I have to give him back. He has his life still to live, all his future before him. Besides. You want your Sam. You need your son. God. I'm so proud of him. He's a beautiful, beautiful boy. I wish I had weeks with him, I wish I had months, I wish I had more time. But I had this, and that is a gift beyond price. I love you. I love all of you so very, very much. Death is nothing against it. It never changed it. It never took it away. It can't destroy it. Be brave."

Miranda reached for him, desperate to kiss him one more time, and Sam cradled her as tenderly as a small bird between his palms, holding her close. Then a cool wind passed over the hut again, the fire flickered, and once more, Emma heard the sigh of the waves. "I love you," she called after him, and heard Killian, Flint, and Miranda echo it. "We love you always."

Sam Bellamy smiled at them. He looked last of all at Geneva, then at Jim, and winked at her. Kept his gaze fixed on her, until it began to fade, as if he was walking away up some distant, bright shore. Jack's face changed, shifting back to himself. His eyes were closed as he slumped to his knees. Sam Jones lay still by the embers of the dwindling fire. No sound. Nothing.

Then, after an endless moment, the first light of day slanted into the hut, clean and soft and new. The sun fell on Sam's face, and something stirred in it, like the first rush of spring thaw beneath broken ice. He squinted, and then he blinked, and then he opened his eyes.

"Mum?" Samuel James Jones said. "I'm really hungry."


	30. XXX

The light was late and low by the time Killian finally emerged from Merlin's hut, with a cool fragility to the edges to remind one that it was the tail end of autumn – close to or even past Emma's birthday, though he had not had recourse to a proper calendar in weeks and thus could not be sure. He felt like a prehistoric man who had lived for years in a cave suddenly stumbling out to reckon with the sun, and squinted against even this lukewarm glow, leaning against the wickerwork wall and inhaling deep, slow breaths. It was quiet, but not in the tense, on-edge, threatening way of Skeleton Island, but simpler, peaceful, calmer, easier. The rest of the family had been taken to the village and given lodgings, with the understanding that they were there as Madi's honored guests, and surely some of the older ones remembered the Maroons' role in fighting alongside the pirates. Their leaders certainly did, but whether that was a welcome memory, Killian was not yet sure.

Still. He was so bloody grateful, so shaken and so sad and so unbearably, transcendently happy, that they could all walk up to him and slap him in the face one by one if they cared to. Nothing, except perhaps his wedding day and the birth of his children, could match the way he felt now, as if he could spread his arms and float right off into the rose-gold western horizon. Sam was still too weak to sit up on his own, much less anything else, so Killian and Emma had spent all day with him, giving him some of Merlin's medicines, tending his wounds, fussing over him, helping him eat (Sam, despite or perhaps because of his brush with death, had put away three bowls of stew and several pieces of bread without trouble) and otherwise unable to let him out of their sight or their hands for long, in case this was all a trick and he would be gone when they looked back. At the moment, Emma was inside, curled up under the blankets with Sam's head nestled on her shoulder, her arm around him as she absently kissed his hair, and Killian, looking at them, wanted to burn it into his soul forever. Much as he didn't want to go, he needed a moment. Just this, here, out in the silence of the evening, and the temple of the sky. Then he would go back.

Killian rubbed his knuckles over his eyes, trying to compose himself. If he was honest, half the reason he was out here was because he didn't want to cry in front of them, though that was ridiculous considering how much they had all been crying earlier. Sam had given them more or less the full account of his misadventures, at least what he could fit in between bites, and Killian was both so proud of him that he could burst, and heartbroken that it had come to this. He knew they could not shield their children from the world forever, nor want them to be, but when he had insisted on seeing how Sam's arm was mending, Sam himself had tried to put a brave face on it. "Won't matter if they have to chop it off, eh? Then I'd be like you, Dad. Right?"

That, then, was what had driven Killian out here, and close to weeping so hard he could not breathe. He had managed to get a few words out about how that was absolutely nothing to envy, but there was so much more he could have said. About how all he had ever wanted for his son was  _not_ to be like him, how Sam was so much better a man than he had been at that age, and how he loved him so much that he couldn't bear it. About how he would trade all of his remaining limbs rather than have Sam lose one finger, and how they had done all of this so that Sam would not have to, in his turn, take up the mantle of Hook.  _And you didn't, my lad. You turned away. You rejected the darkness and the revenge and the destruction, and you did it all on your own._

That did it. Killian slid down the side of the hut, sat on the ground, and finally and comprehensively broke down. He did his best to sob quietly, not wanting to disturb Emma and Sam inside, or anyone else who might be out here; he did not want this on public display, after all. He wiped his face on his sleeve, watching the shadows lengthen, heaving a few ragged breaths, until he got control of himself, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.  _God,_ he thought.  _Thank you. Thank you._

He remained like that, as the light began to turn blue and shadowed, until he was roused by the sound of footsteps at the far side of the clearing. He looked up warily, even though he knew the likelihood of an attack was low, expecting to see Merlin or perhaps Nemo – but it was neither. The tall, handsome man was several decades older, like the rest of them, and his black beard was well flecked in grey, but Killian still recognized him. "Lance – Lancelot?"

"Aye." The ex-slave he had once saved on Jamaica, who had then joined the  _Jolie Rouge's_ crew with his men and served as quartermaster, and roused the plantations of New Providence Island against the English occupation in the name of their fallen brothers on the  _Whydah,_ held out a hand and smiled wryly. "I heard you were back in the neighborhood."

Killian got up, crossed to him, and clasped hold without another word, as they held tight, clapped each other on the shoulder, and then pulled each other into a proper hug. "It's good to see you," Lancelot said, when they let go. "How is your son?"

"He's – " Killian drew another unsteady breath. "He's going to be all right, I think. Yet again, I find myself in you and your people's utmost debt for the life of one of my loved ones. You and Nemo. I'm somehow not surprised that you two know each other. Is that what you do here?"

"In a way," Lancelot said. "Ursula is my wife. We work to free slaves across the Caribbean, and Nemo helps us get them away. Some of them join his crew on the  _Nautilus,_ others leave the ship in Africa or India or where they wish to go. There are very few safe places for black men in the Americas, you know, and even fewer for black women. Some of them go to Europe, where they may be pitied or patronized or regarded as curiosities or strange specimens or 'extraordinary Negroes' such as I was in England, but where they are at least away from the chains and chattels of plantation slavery. I wish we could do more."

"Aye." Killian looked down. "Our own home province of Georgia is, at least for the moment, the only one of the colonies to outlaw slavery. I'm not sure that will be able to hold out forever."

"Not when the great wheels of profit are grinding faster and faster," Lancelot said. "Freeing a few slaves, damming up a few streams, is nothing against the flood. I am not optimistic about the future that awaits my people. But doing this is better than doing nothing."

"You're a bloody brave man," Killian said quietly. "And you don't need me to tell you that, because you know it, and you'd be so whether or not a white man agreed. But you and Nemo have done far more for our family than we can ever repay, Madi saved our son's life by bringing us here, and if there is anything that would make me want to return to Hook, it wouldn't be my selfish vengeance. It would be wishing that I could do something, anything, to burn down this whole rotten system, and everyone who perpetuates it."

"You can't," Lancelot said, quite gently. "Neither can I. We're old men now. This is a fight for our children and our grandchildren and all the generations we will never see, but can do our best to hope for. And I imagine you know that, but just as it is for me, knowing it does not make it easier to bear. All we can do is continue to do our part. That matters. I have to believe that."

"I think so." Killian took another slow breath. "We – we spoke to him, Lancelot. Sam Bellamy. He – Merlin called the  _loa,_ and, well – he spoke to us. Through – through Jack."

"So I heard," Lancelot said. "I knew him too, after all. And it does not surprise me. You and your family have carried him so long and so close, how could he be anywhere else than with you? But perhaps, now, it is time. To let him go, and lay him to rest. If you wish, I will ask if we can have a small service for him, and a grave. He will not be there, at least in body, but if it comforts you, you will have it."

"I think…" Killian had to fight the renewed prickle of tears in his eyes. "I think we'd like that. Mate – Ursula – I don't want to ask you to go behind your wife's back, or keep secrets from her. Does she… she must know we are here?"

Lancelot paused, then nodded. "She knows. She has agreed to it. Her grievance with you was a long time ago. You do not need to fear anything from her."

"I… thank you." Killian swallowed hard. "Thank you. For everything."

"There is enough misery and darkness and hatred and violence in the world," Lancelot said. "I prefer to do the opposite, where I can. Good night, Captain."

"Good night." Killian managed a nod in return. "Quartermaster."

They held each other's eyes a moment longer, and then Lancelot strode across the clearing, disappearing into the trees. Killian went to have a piss and a drink of water, then back into the hut. Emma and Sam were cuddled up where he had left them, and Killian did not want to wake them. He spread a few extra blankets and cushions, lay down, and went out like a light.

He slept without stirring or dreaming, until pearly grey morning began to finger through the slats. As he lay there, half-awake and very comfortable, he could not help but wonder if Liam – and Matthew, Silver, and Charlotte, for that matter, but especially Liam – was still alive. He was inclined to think so, if only because he had always felt that he would just know if his brother was dead, even after the years apart and the emotional estrangement. Between the storm and the Spanish and Skeleton Island, the odds might be thin, yet he could not help but hope. If the  _Griffin_ had sunk, it could be another exile of months or years for them, such as the one Flint had endured. Should they ask Geneva to sail back there on the  _Rose,_ to run a search party? No. No, that was far too cruel. Killian didn't want either of his children anywhere near that godforsaken place ever again. If they returned to Nassau, Charlie had to have a spare ship or two, something they could use. Perhaps someone would go looking, if Gideon Murray never made it back to Charlestown.  _What about Gold's network? Is that disbanded, or do they have orders to hunt us even after his death? Are we safe if we go home?_

The restlessness of these questions, the reminder that all was not yet quite over, made Killian sit up and dress quietly, with a light kiss for Emma and Sam before he stepped outside. Since the Swan-Joneses had taken over his hut, Merlin had removed elsewhere, and Killian briefly considered going to look for him, but then he decided that he didn't quite want to talk to Merlin about this. The  _houngan_ was considerably helpful with matters of the esoteric, but with matters of the familial or personal, rather less so.

A light, indistinct rain beaded finely on Killian's jacket as he followed the path down and into the Maroons' village, which was still mostly asleep as well, though a few folk were out for morning chores. Someone was sitting on a boulder watching them, wrapped in a blanket and seemingly content to stay by himself, but who looked up as Killian came closer. In a hesitant voice, as if expecting to be shooed off like a nuisance goat rooting in the garbage, Jack Bellamy said, "Is… is Sam all right?"

"He's…" Killian smiled at him reassuringly. "Aye, he's going to be fine. You can come by and see him, you know. He's told us quite a bit about what the two of you did. And after what – " He paused. "After what happened the other night, you… do you remember any of that?"

"It's a bit hazy," Jack said. "I feel like I had some sort of dream, or… I don't know. I remember parts, but not everything. Mostly just standing there wondering what was going to happen, and then waking up without knowing I had been asleep, and… I'm glad Sam's on the mend."

"Aye." Killian cocked his head. "You don't feel like you can go see him, do you?"

Jack looked at him, startled and sidelong. After a moment he said, "The last thing Sam actually said to me was that he didn't want me to come with him and his grandfather. Which, given what he interrupted me doing, was bloody understandable. I betrayed him, I lied to him, I let him think I was dead, and he'd been wounded by Lady Fiona. I… if I had done something, perhaps, the wound might not have festered as badly as it did. He certainly wouldn't have gotten kidnapped by Billy. And, well…. everything else." He blew out a ragged breath. "I'm truly grateful I was able to help save his life. Believe me. But I'm not sure that makes any difference."

"I can't speak for my son, of course," Killian said. "But unlike – well, damn near everyone else in our family, Sam doesn't hold grudges. And from what I can tell, you did a lot for him, and were there for him at some genuinely awful moments in his life. What happened with Nathaniel, that…isn't something that will soon go away."

Jack flinched. "I good as got Nathaniel killed too. And of course what happened with your father-in-law. I… I'm sorry. For everything I've done to your family. Charlotte… didn't leave the island, so I have to go back to Nassau and get Cecilia, but after that, I'll be on my way. You won't have to see me again."

"What? I… no. Lad,  _no._ That's not what we want, that is not what we want at  _all._ And if I'm not much mistaken, it's not what you want either." Killian sat down next to him on the rock and gripped Jack's shoulder when he tried to slide away. "You gave us our son back, and you gave us the greatest gift in our lives, that impossible, miraculous moment to say the goodbye to your uncle that we never had. If you do want to leave with your niece, then do it, but for the love of all that is holy, don't run because you think we want you to. We don't. Trust me, if there is one thing this family can't point fingers at, it's dark deeds we have done in the past, deeds that we would give anything to take back, and hurting the ones we love as a result. But we've found our way back, we've found our way through. You can be a part of that."

Jack didn't say a word, but after a moment, his shoulders began to shake, ever so slightly. He sniffed, clearly doing his valiant best to pretend it was rain on his face, as Killian tactfully looked away. Then Jack wiped his nose with the back of his hand and harrumphed. As if searching for a final excuse, he said, "But Flint – "

"Look," Killian said. "James is a – an acquired taste, let's put it that way. But these days at least, his bark is much worse than his bite, and he too has been through the hell of a lot recently. Besides, whatever you did to him, he probably deserved it, and he's certainly had far worse. And you don't have to worry about him forgiving you. Might be just a hunch, but I think he will."

Jack looked as if he could not countenance this astonishing idea, that he could not picture Flint or Sam or the family or anyone actually accepting his misdeeds and letting go of them, that he would ever get a second chance, or any room to try again. Killian knew the feeling painfully well, and he sat there quietly, saying nothing, even as he could hear Jack struggling with it. He knew that all the well-meant words in the world made no difference if one could not come to an acceptance of it within oneself, and one's own mercy both given and received. Then Killian clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder and got to his feet. "I'll leave you to your thoughts. Do come by and see Sam later if you want, the invitation stands."

With that, he headed off, into the village and across to the small grouping of huts where the rest of the family had been housed. He was not at all looking forward to this next conversation, but he was overwhelmingly aware that he had to do it, and he might feel better when it was over, like being sick. As he came nearer, he saw his daughter sitting by the firepit with a bowl of porridge, her dark hair down in tangles and shadows carved under her eyes, staring absently into the flames. At his approach, she looked up. "Good morning, Da – Daddy."

"Good morning, sweetheart." Killian came to an awkward halt, not sure if she wanted him to join her. "How are you?"

"I'm…" Geneva mulled over that question, then deflected it. "How's Sam?"

"He's getting better. He's going to be all right. But your mother and I have been with him for a while, and I…" Killian scratched behind his ear, the old, nervous habit. "I wanted to see about you. You've been through just as dread an ordeal, if not worse, and you were so bloody, bloody brave, and strong, and tenacious. Getting to the island in the first place, and then getting us off it, and everything you've faced. I'm so proud of you. So very, very proud. But I know as well that that… might not mean quite the same thing that it used to."

Geneva considered this inscrutably, then put down her bowl. She seemed to be fighting a lump in her throat, as if she could no longer eat, and no matter whether or not she wanted him, Killian could not stand by and watch his little girl cry. He sat down on the log next to her and offered his arm, and Geneva let her head fall onto his shoulder as if it weighed a thousand tons. After a long pause, half-muffled, she said, "Why did you kill Mr. Hawkins?"

"I…" Killian took a breath. "Well, I could offer you a number of reasons, I'm sure. That he had led a mutiny of the still-loyal Navy sailors, that it was a battle, that he was there and I chose the most straightforward option, that I had killed so many others by then, including men I knew and had sailed with, that it was no great leap to do the same to him. I could tell you that he wanted to hand Sam Bellamy over to the British authorities in exchange for a pardon for the rest of the  _Imperator's_ men, and I… couldn't let him do that. But I suspect what you're asking is if I was something even worse than you imagined, some dark terror masquerading as a man, and if I had lied to you all these years. If you were wrong to ever believe in me as your hero and as your father, and that perhaps, I might still even want to do that again now."

Geneva tensed, then pulled her face out of his shoulder and looked up at him. "I understand the rage," she said. "At least a bit. I wanted to kill Gideon, and I – I did kill Fiona. And I'd known, I'd  _known,_ that you were Hook, and you'd done terrible things. But none of it really seemed to matter. It never was something that I had to worry about, it didn't touch me. But this, and then the other night, when we…" She trailed off. "Were we… really talking to him?"

"Of course I can't say." Killian smoothed her rough hair out of her eyes. "But I believe with all my heart, as much as I ever have in anything in my life, that we were. If by some trick or smoke or deception we were not… well, that barely matters to me. Just that we had it, and we all needed it so terribly. And I'm sorry. Sorry that that was the first way you had to meet him, that we kept him such a secret from you and your brother, and that we've all thought so long that the best way to deal with the past was to leave it shut and locked in a trunk. Anything you want to know about Sam the elder, we'll tell you. Later, perhaps, but you may hold me to that."

After a moment, Geneva nodded. "All right," she said. "I – I think I'd like that."

"When you want to know," Killian emphasized. "It has to be for your sake, not for ours. If you want to finish your breakfast in peace, I'll let you, but… do you know where Jim is?"

"I… yes." Geneva pointed. "He has the hut next to mine and Aunt Regina's – she and I have been talking, by the way. He went out early, though."

Killian was somewhat surprised (if admittedly grateful) that they were not sleeping together, but he could see how that would be awkward in the stress and preoccupation of Sam's near-death, the meeting with the family and the man who had killed your father, and the sheer exhaustion finally setting in. Still, it was  _his_  fatherly duty to delicately probe. "The two of you, are you… well, he kissed you when we got back to the  _Rose,_ so I… well, I was just wondering…"

Geneva gave him the irritated look common to every child who could see through this transparent parental bumbling. "I haven't done anything more than kiss him.  _Not_ that that is your business, but there you have it."

"Oh." Killian paused. "That, well – it is, as you say, your business. I – I'm sorry that you had to find out about Hawkins senior like that, and that it came at the expense of someone you clearly care about a great deal. Is Jim – "

"Uncle Thomas likes him," Geneva said, with a slight challenge in her voice. "That should be enough for you."

"I'm not asking if he's good enough for you, I promise." Killian held up his hands. "Speaking of which, where are your grandparents?"

"Still asleep, probably," Geneva said. "Grandpa and Granny and Uncle Thomas have had some catching up to do, and I didn't want to interrupt them. But I – oh. Ah. Good – good morning."

Killian saw her eyes flick anxiously over his shoulder as she said it, and could tell at once who it was. He steadied himself, then turned around. "Ah. Morning."

"Morning." Jim Hawkins looked as if he had not at all wanted to walk into this situation upon his return for breakfast, but would steel himself to face it nonetheless. They nodded stiffly at each other, a palpable chill hanging in the air, as Geneva found a reason to scoff the rest of her porridge and scuttle off at top speed, for which Killian could not blame her. It was almost on the tip of his tongue to tell Jim how much he looked like his father, but that of course was the one thing guaranteed to get them off on a very wrong foot. Jim went to dip up a bowl of porridge, stirred a bit of brown sugar and honey into it, and sat down, eyeing Killian warily. Finally he said, "Your son, is he – "

"Aye, yeah, he's going to be fine." Killian had spent a lot of time reassuring everyone of that fact recently, which was understandable, and he was happy to do it. Nonetheless, it hurt him that they were clearly here to talk about Jim's father, what Killian himself had deprived him of, and the first thing Jim asked was whether Sam would be all right.  _He's a good lad._ "You did as much to save him as anyone, so… thank you."

Jim considered, as there must be all manner of potential responses to that. Finally he swallowed his spoonful of porridge and nodded. "I'm glad to hear it. Geneva – well, she clearly loves her brother very much. It's been weighing on her."

"I know." Killian supposed they could keep waiting for the other to raise the subject first, which was liable to turn excruciating in a hurry, or they could grab the bull by the horns. And as this was his fault, it seemed incumbent upon him to do that. "I'm… I'm sorry about your father. I know that can't come close to covering what I did to you and to your mother, but that's the only way I can think of to even begin."

A muscle worked in Jim's cheek, but he didn't answer. He stared into the fire, as if gathering himself for a more fitting response. At last he said, "Did you know about me? When you did it?"

"I… I did. You were born a few months before we shipped out with the  _Imperator,_ on the assignment to take Gold to Antigua. I saw you as a baby at the Benbow, briefly, and I thought of you almost immediately after I had done it. I knew that I had condemned you to grow up without a father, and in defense of my own unborn child – who was, in all the ironies of the world, Geneva. I'm glad that you two met, by the way. If something good was to come out of such a terrible connection, I'm happy for it to be that. If there's anything you want to ask me, or if you just want to shout at me… well, I deserve anything you feel like meting out."

"I thought about it," Jim said, after another pause. "Shouting at you, that is. I think I'm angrier on my mother's behalf than I am on my own. I never knew him, but she did. She loved him, she was proud of him, she felt sure I would follow in his footsteps, and she was the one who struggled the most with losing him. With running the Benbow alone, with raising me alone, with being a widow, thinking this entire time that he had died a hero fighting the pirates, and never knowing that it was his own captain, the younger of the Jones brothers he'd sailed with their whole career, who murdered him in cold blood, no matter how exalted his reasons. My mother has suffered the  _fuck_ of a lot, and that, well… I don't know if it's for me to forgive."

"Aye. That's – that's entirely understandable." Killian forced himself to speak as calmly as possible, as it would be a further injustice to be the one to break first, to put Jim in any position of having to comfort him instead. "I heard from Liam that the Benbow burned down while he was there with you in Bristol. Whether or not it comes from the Skeleton Island stash, I'll see that you're able to send back enough money to keep your mother in comfort for the rest of her life. She won't have to go back to working as a tavern-keeper, if she doesn't want to. That does not, of course, remotely atone for my past wrongs against her, but it is the very least I can do."

"I – thank you." Jim nodded stiffly. "I – appreciate that."

Killian didn't quite trust himself to answer, and nodded back instead. There were another few moments of silence until Jim said, "Growing up, I – I did used to play that game. Imagining myself a father, and what he was like. Telling myself he was proud of me. I acted out, I got into a lot of trouble, and I enlisted in the Navy when I was sixteen both because I had some idea of following in his footsteps, and because I already had a reputation as a scalawag. Bristol was not sorry to see the back of me. Only I made a bloody mess of that too. I – I was an overall shit. I was angry, and I felt that everything I did could be justified because how could I know better, I'd had no father to teach me. I don't think I wanted to be in the Navy so much as I wanted to punish the Navy for being the place where he had died. It was no wonder they threw me out. The look on my mother's face when I came home in disgrace…"

Jim trailed off for a long moment. Finally he said, "I think that was when I realized how much I'd gotten it wrong. That I did have someone to teach me better, who had always done her best, and it was her. I felt horrible for what I had done, for disappointing her, and promised I'd stay and help out on the docks, or around the Benbow, and yet… well. I made plenty of bloody progress at ruining my own life without you. You've hurt my mother plenty, aye, but I've hurt her worse. The whole time I was there in front of her, breaking her heart just a bit more every day. I was the one who could have stepped up, could have made things better, helped carry the load, was the one she loved and wanted the best for, and I… didn't."

Killian opened his mouth, then shut it. At last he said, "If my opinion matters a damn, that's one of the most honest and mature and painful things I've ever heard a man say about himself, and it's very far from how I dealt with my own darkness, or my realization of it, or any of it. My own father, he… he was not a good man. He sold Liam and myself into slavery for a rowboat, and when I finally crossed paths with him again on Nassau, I killed him too. I wreaked on you what I'd had done to me, and it… as you say, it might have been easier if I in fact did not know any better. But I did. I'd had my brother, I'd had Liam, who fought as hard as your mother did to tame me and raise me and teach me right from wrong. We have had our own struggles and separations, believe me. But for us now, you and me, we've both drowned in our losses. Perhaps we have not done as well at seeing what was left behind. What remained."

"You have," Jim said, almost inadvertently. "With your family – "

"Aye," Killian agreed. "But that has not come easily, or instinctively, or without constant struggle. Just a few months ago, I was ready to drop everything and race to Barbados without a thought or second glance to murder Gold, no matter who it hurt or why. Hook has been very close to me this entire time. I cannot tell you that he has gone away. But I have tried, every day, every  _bloody_ day, to remember not just what I have to fight for, but what I had, and have, when the war is over. Where I come home to, and who I lie down beside, and when I sleep."

Jim looked sidelong at him, as if about to say something, but didn't. He picked up his porridge and began to eat again, scraped the bowl clean, and put it down. Then he said, "Are you planning to ask me about my intentions with your daughter, or – or something?"

"I don't feel that I have much right to do that." Killian paused. "She  _is_ my daughter, so of course I'm invested in her happiness, and I don't want to see her hurt, and I'd want to know that any man who might be interested in being with her would treat her as I myself would treat her. But Geneva is a grown woman who has made her own decisions and lived her own life for quite some while, and – as this entire conversation should make clear – has no ultimate need to consider my role or input on anything, much less her private choices. If you two wish to see what there is to be made with each other, you more than have my blessing. But I suspect that neither of you felt that you needed it first, and that is as it should be."

Jim considered, then nodded curtly. "Thank you," he said. "For coming to me first, rather than making me go find you, and for this conversation. I am at least quite bloody sure that I don't want to go back to Bristol. If we can make arrangements to send the money to my mother, I will be grateful. But as long as Geneva is captain of the  _Rose,_ and as long as she wants me around, I plan to serve aboard. Mr. Arrow and Mr. Silver are gone. Shewillneed a first mate."

"Aye. And I think she could do no better than you." Killian looked back at him steadily. "You'd have my vote, at least. In any event, I've impinged upon you enough for now. Good morning."

Jim echoed it back to him, and after another polite, awkward nod, Killian strode off. The rest of the village was awake by this time; the rain had stopped, and a thin sliver of sun illuminated the underside of the clouds. As he came closer, he spotted Miranda, Flint, and Thomas at another one of the breakfast fires, still looking pale and tired, but better than they had since this whole nonsense began (or at least Killian imagined that it also obtained for Thomas, as it certainly did for Miranda and Flint). He detoured over to them, sat down, and once he had assured them that Sam junior was on the road to recovery, told them of Lancelot's offer to hold a funeral for Sam senior. "If we… if we wanted that. Funerals are for the living, after all, not the dead. He wouldn't be buried there, of course, but… given as this was the place where we last spoke to him, where we said our goodbyes, I think it might be nice to have some sort of marker or memorial. We never had that before, and we… now we know he's safe, and he's well, and he's not just lost in the sea. The Maroons knew him as well and respected him, and I think Sam would like to have a place here with them, with free men. The service won't be High Church Anglican, for bloody certain, but we all know how Sam felt about the church, so that's not an impediment. If you agree, we… Emma and I… I think we'd like to."

Flint and Miranda looked at each other, and Flint silently took her hand. "Yes," she said after a moment. "Yes, I think we would also like that very much."

Thomas took her other hand, holding tightly. Miranda wore her wedding ring from him on her left hand, and her wedding ring from James on her right, and as their fingers interlaced, Killian was struck with a sudden and heart-wrenching sensation of love for all of them, and what they had somehow managed to do and build and be. "I think it'd be tonight," he said. "I'll find Lancelot and ask him, of course, but if that's all right."

"Yes." Tears were starting to spill down Miranda's cheeks again, but she nodded. "Where's Jack? Is he all right?"

"I saw him earlier. He's… he's convinced that he's going to have to run, that we don't want him here. I tried to tell him otherwise, but it's a decision he'll have to make on his own."

Flint cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "That would be fucking stupid. Especially when anyone with eyes can see he's in love with Sam. It's not what I'd do."

Miranda and Thomas both gave him incredulous, eyebrow-arched,  _oh really darling?_ looks.

"Fine." Flint huffed. "It is what I  _used_ to do, but would assuredly not do any more. I can find him and inform him, if you wish."

"Absolutely not," Killian said. "The last thing we need is you trying to handle this with him in any degree. Sorry, mate. Besides, I already told him that I thought you would forgive him. Arse that up, and I will punch you. Consider yourself forewarned."

Flint scowled. "I've taken plenty of bloody punches recently. Mostly from him, I might add. I don't need any more."

"Exactly. So butt out, eh?" Killian turned to Miranda, while Flint was still looking put out at the heretical notion that his opinion might not be needed on absolutely everything. "Are you all right?"

She paused, then nodded. "I – I am. I want to sleep for a fortnight, but I think we all do. As for the rest, my grandson being alive is all I could truly ask for. Everything else is a gift, and… some people are not so fortunate as to have one great love in their life, and I have had three. I spoke to one the other night, through years and through death, and I have the other two here with me. I think it would be quite difficult to say that I am not most profoundly blessed."

Killian paused, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek, as she let go of Thomas' hand long enough to cup his own. "I'll see you tonight, then," he said. "Thank you, all of you, for everything you did on that fucking bloody island, and for my – for our children."

With that, having collected some breakfast of his own and for Emma and Sam, he headed back to Merlin's hut. They were awake by now, and he sat down to eat with them, filling them in on where he had been off to that morning. He noticed that Sam's ears pricked up at the mention of Jack, though he did his best to look nonchalant. "Did he, uh…" Sam coughed. "Did he say anything about whether he was going to, or… or not?"

"I don't know, lad," Killian said. "He's hard to read, that one."

"Aye, tell me about it." Sam rolled his eyes, then looked hopefully at Emma's half-eaten bowl of porridge. "Are you going to finish that, Mum?"

"I can get you some more, so you don't have to starve your mother," Killian pointed out. Which was too late, as Emma had already handed it to him, and Sam devoured it like a wolf leaping on a deer in the dead of winter. When this ignominious display was concluded, Killian said, "Do you… do you want him to? I think that's mostly what's keeping him away. The fear that you're angry at him, and wouldn't forgive him."

"Well," Sam said. "I am. Angry at him, I mean. But, well. I don't think that means I want him to go away. For good, I mean. If he came here, and I could shout at him properly, I feel like that would help. Unless he does just want to go away, because who even knows when it comes to him. I don't. I kept trying, and I kept being wrong, so…" He trailed off, then tried another nonchalant shrug, which was not very nonchalant at all. "Never mind. He can go, I don't care."

Killian and Emma exchanged a look over their son's head, which fortunately Sam did not notice. They had already both concurred that Jack was, as Flint had said, in love with him, and they had guessed from Sam's version of events that those feelings were at least somewhat reciprocated, but in a confused, inchoate sort of way that could be a passing fancy or brief fascination more than real love. Rather ironically, however, it was this feeble attempt at denial, this entirely familial-characteristic way of doing things, that made it clear to them. As much as Sam was trying to claim that Jack could go if he damn well pleased, and no skin off his nose if so, it was clear that Jack actually doing so would very much break his heart. And while of course Killian and Emma could not stop Jack, and could not guard against whatever romantic misfortunes might befall their children, they still knew then that if remotely possible, they did not want it to happen. Did not want Sam's life to be saved, only to face this instead.

"I'll do my best to bring him around, lad," Killian said, after a moment. "And I've told your grandfather to keep his trap shut, so hopefully that will help."

Sam snorted. However, his face was still intent, troubled, and abstracted, and Killian squeezed his shoulder. Once they had checked his wounds and applied more liniments and changed the bandages, Killian could no longer contain his curiosity. He had not wanted to ask before now, what with everything else, but he still had to know. "So. What happened the other night, just before you woke up and came back to us. Do you… do you remember any of that?"

"A little bit?" Sam frowned. "I was having some sort of strange dream. I was on a beach, and there was a man there. I felt like I knew him. He was tall and black-haired and he looked a lot like Jack, and he… he was kind. He said that I'd come a long way, I'd gotten lost, and he was going to take me back to my family. Then we started to walk. We talked, but I can't remember about what. At some point, I realized Jack was there too. Then the man said we were here and it was time to go, and that he loved me so much. There was a moment right before I woke up, I knew who he was, and I… I was happy. I was so happy. But I'm not sure now."

Emma and Killian looked at each other, then each took one of their son's hands. "We can tell you who he was," Killian said quietly. "Or you may have guessed."

Sam looked blank for a moment, then stunned. "Wait," he said. "Wait, was that… how did you… wait. Was it – was it him? Sam senior? Jack's uncle, my – my godfather?"

"Yes." Emma's eyes sparkled with tears. "Something happened, we're still not sure what, but it did, with Merlin and you and Jack, on the night we arrived here from Skeleton Island. You came back to us because Sam Bellamy brought you back. I know you've always felt that you could never measure up to him, that you were never good enough, that he might hate you if he ever met you. But he doesn't. He loves you. He always did. All of us. You don't have to take that on yourself any more, baby. You don't."

Sam blinked slowly at first, looking stunned, and then faster. "I…" He rubbed his eyes, as if trying to pretend that they itched. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Emma leaned down and kissed his head. "We love you. Just the way you are. You've been so brave, sweetheart. So brave. You don't have anything to prove to us, to your grandfather, to your sister, to your namesake, to anyone. We all saw, and we know, and we are so, so proud."

Sam sniffled harder at that, and Killian put an arm around him too, rocking his son against him, chin on his hair. Sam tried to say something, but it was too choked to understand, and he gulped and tried again, voice quivering. "I really miss Nathaniel."

"We know." Emma rubbed his back, her own eyes too bright. "We know. I wish – I  _wish_ none of this had happened to you. I wish we could take it back, we could make it all right. But you're here, and you… anything you want to know, we'll tell you. When you're better. All right?"

"All r-right." Sam struggled to compose himself. "Is everyone – is anyone else hurt? Is – is Charlotte here? Is she safe?"

"Everyone else is – is fine," Killian said, after a pause. "A few of us stayed behind on Skeleton Island when the Spanish man-of-war attacked, though. Matthew Rogers, your uncle Liam, Mr. Silver, and – and Charlotte. We told them to meet us in Nassau, if they – well. We don't know."

Sam took that in silently. Then he said, "It – it wasn't because of me, was it? Any of them deciding to – not come back?"

"No. No, no, no." Emma took his face in her hands. "They chose to stay to give the rest of us a chance to escape. It was nothing to do with you. Or if it was, it was wanting to make sure that you got to safety. It's not your fault. It's not your fault."

"All right." Sam looked as if he was not entirely sure, but would accept this answer for now. "Is that where we're going, then? Back to Nassau?"

"When you're strong enough to travel," Killian said, "yes. Your brother Henry and his family are there, along with David Nolan, your uncle Charles, and Jack and Charlotte's niece Cecilia. We'll stay there until the others arrive, or it…" He paused. "Well, if it becomes clear that it's time to go home. It's late in the year, I don't want to muck around with too many more sea voyages, and I think all of us have had our fill besides. But there's something I wanted to ask you. We are… well, we are going to hold a small funeral service for your godfather tonight, as it's something we never did before. Do you… do you want to come?"

Sam looked at him, then blinked. "I – well. I think – I think so, yes."

Killian paused, then kissed his hair again, not feeling altogether steady himself. Told him to get some more rest, and slipped quietly away.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, until Lancelot came to find them at dusk. Killian wrapped Sam in his quilt and carried him into the soft purple evening, Emma on his heels, out to the small, secluded strip of land, looking out to sea, where the rest of the family was waiting. Flint, Miranda, and Thomas were holding hands again, and someone had found Miranda a black veil, which she bore with upright, queenly dignity. Geneva, Jim, and Regina were there as well, all looking slightly awkward, but Killian was grateful and humbled to see the three of them; none of them had known Sam except for Regina, and then not terribly well. Geneva and Jim, likewise, could have stayed away after the painful morning they had had, and Geneva's own unsettled feelings about her godfather, but they were there. So were Madi, Nemo, Merlin, and someone who, as she turned, Killian recognized as Ursula. No longer slim and pretty and maidenly, but a woman who had seen many years and hard work and no doubt, many griefs and losses and burdens. Their eyes met as he came over the rise, and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then she nodded graciously. "Hello, Hook."

"Hello, Ursula." He inclined his head. "I – thank you. For – for letting us stay."

She considered him, then nodded again, and Killian moved to put Sam down next to his sister. He and Emma took their places next to Flint and Miranda, and he took a deep breath, mustering himself. Then he turned to Merlin, who appeared to be acting as officiant. "We're ready."

It was, as such things went, not terribly formal. Merlin prayed in the same tongue as before, which Killian could not understand, but found it comforting nonetheless. Then he asked if any of them would like to say a few words, and Killian hesitated, then stepped forward.

He was not quite sure what he said, later. He knew that he was smiling as he said it, and crying, and he kept being certain that he would not be able to finish, but somehow, as ever, he continued on, and he did. He looked up at his family, tears streaming down their faces, and yet they were smiling just a bit too. The wind came off the sea, ruffling their hair back as gently as a loving hand, and Killian turned into it and let it scour the salt from his eyes, shoulders shaking, his breathing feeling like a knife in his chest, and yet he knew that it was all right now, it was time. They could walk away from here, and be at peace. Not without that loss, never without it, but no longer consumed and hunted and haunted by it.  _I'll see you again. We can wait._

There was not a full grave, but Lancelot had dug a hole, so they could each take turns throwing some dirt in. Miranda's hands trembled so hard as they took the spade from Killian that she almost dropped it, but then she tightened her grip, and did not. She stood there for a moment with her eyes closed, bringing herself to it, and then slowly, tenderly, thoroughly, she lifted her shovelful of dirt and laid it down, taking her time about each crumb. She whispered something that none of them could quite catch, then kissed her palm, knelt down, and pressed it into the earth. Remained there a final moment, and then allowed Flint and Thomas to help her up. "I'm all right," she said shakily. "I'm all right now. I'm with you."

The spade was passed around, and Geneva, the last to go, had just taken her turn, when there was a movement at the edge of the clearing. Killian looked around just in time to see Jack, who had apparently been watching from the trees without a sound. Indeed upon being spotted, he tried to dodge out of sight, and then saw Sam, who in turn saw him. They both froze, then looked away with determined casualness, and then finally, Jack crossed the clearing and took the shovel from Geneva. Scooped up some dirt and placed it in, then stepped away, as if preparing to flee once more. But, as if aware that it would be rude, he didn't. He remained in the background, silent.

Once the hole was filled, Emma placed the marker, which had been chiseled into a flat, smooth rock. It had Sam's title, name, and dates, but beneath, instead of any attempt to memorialize him as one relationship or another, the only word was  _Beloved._ Emma set it gently into the fresh earth, straightened it, and then stood up, as Killian moved to take her in his arms. They all stood there without a sound, listening to the night fall, and the soft crash of the sea. Then, after it was full dark, as the moon began to rise huge and silver, they finally turned and walked away.

* * *

Sam spent most of the next few days sleeping, or when he wasn't sleeping, eating. This was a foolproof combination of which he had not done nearly enough recently, and every time he began to get big ideas that he was recovered and fine to go gallivanting off again, he would come over weak as water and have to be helped back to bed. He felt bad that he was holding everyone up like this, but they assured him that they could use the recuperation as well, which was nice of them to say. For that matter, they probably meant it. He had not yet pieced together the full story of what the rest of his family had been up to during his various disasters, but it was enough to tell at least that they had also had quite the bloody time of it.

The other advantage of this arrangement was that it allowed him to avoid thinking about Jack. One or the other of his parents was usually nearby, helping with food and medicine and cleaning his wounds and the like, and his grandparents, his sister, and his aunt had all come to visit to see how he was getting on. Sam felt a bit like an animal in the Royal Menagerie, but he supposed he could not fault them for ensuring that he was not in fact dead. He'd come quite close to it, after all. Possibly even actually crossed over, until that strange half-dream with his godfather, if it had really been him. But thinking too much about that veered dangerously close to thinking about Jack, and since Sam was determined not to, he put it out of his head.

It was afternoon on the fourth or fifth day where this admirable strategy finally hit a snag. Sam was being kept company by his grandmother, who had taken over so Mum and Dad could sleep, and was trying to convince her that he was fine to go out for some air, as lying in bed being doted upon was all very well and good, but he was getting bored. His grandmother, however, was deeply used to men insisting that they were fine when they were not, and was giving him politely dubious looks, when there was a rustle at the door of the hut. They thus turned around to see Grandpa holding Jack by the scruff of the neck, looking as proud as a cat presenting a dead mouse to its master. "Here. This is convenient, isn't it? Apologize to my wife, then talk to my grandson. Any questions?"

" _James."_  Miranda sighed. "Didn't we  _tell_ you not to interfere with this?"

"Aye," Flint said, completely unrepentant. "But I got tired of that. And if there's anything to be said for the older of us stopping the younger ones from repeating our mistakes… Jones the elder and Killian did their part. This is mine. Besides, Thomas thinks we should give him a chance, so." He glanced very pointedly at Jack. "Well?"

Jack gave Flint a  _will-you-get-off-me-you-maniac_ look, but forbore from actually hitting him, and Flint released him with exaggerated courtesy. Then he coughed. "Captain Flint is, as it happens, correct. I do owe you an apology, ma'am. For anything I may have said to you on the  _Griffin_ , and treating him over there how I did. I'm – I'm truly sorry."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous." But Miranda said it very gently, getting to her feet, crossing to them, and taking smart custody of Jack from her still-slightly-glowering husband. "You couldn't have known anything about our past, and… James does have a tendency to make his own bed, to say the least, from time to time. You gave us a priceless gift, and I'm not angry. None of us are." She cupped his face in her hands, looking up at him. "You can believe that. All right?"

Jack opened his mouth, then shut it. Sam had never seen him so tentative, until he wondered if someone had switched personalities with Jack on the other side of wherever they had been. He made no attempt to pull away from Miranda, and finally, she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "You have nothing to apologize for," she said. "Nothing."

Flint cleared his throat loudly.

"Well… that is a conversation that does not require us." Miranda threw a pointed look at him. "Though in the vein of apologies that should be offered, perhaps there is one more first?"

"No, that's all right," Flint said. "He can apologize to me later. In the meantime…" He raised one eyebrow. "Sam, give a good yell if you need help, all right?"

"What do you think he's going to do?" Sam said, before he could stop himself. "Pounce on me?"

"I have no idea." Flint shrugged. "None whatsoever, actually. At any rate, we'll be nearby. Miranda, if you would?"

If a woman as elegant and well-bred and ever-gracious as Miranda Hamilton McGraw could roll her eyes out of her head, that was exactly what she would have been doing. But she took her husband's arm with utterly correct gentility, then permitted herself to be escorted out of the hut, leaving Jack and Sam alone together for the first time since the tiny berth on the  _Titania._ The silence was absolutely excruciating, and both of them found the latticework of the ceiling unaccountably fascinating. Finally Jack said, "You're – getting better, then?"

"Yeah." Sam pulled his gaze off the roof and looked at Jack straight. "But since everyone's asked me that question fifty times in the last few days, it's not exactly information you had to see me personally in order to confirm. Do you  _want_ me to yell for Grandpa?"

"No," Jack said. "Bloody hell, please do not do that. No. No. That is absolutely a no. He – well, your grandfather is a terrible pain in the arse, I won't deny that, but… yes, he's right. About this. I – I've done you a great wrong, and I…" He stopped, blowing out a breath and running both hands through his hair. "I don't… know how to fix it, or if I even can."

Sam regarded him for a long moment. The idea of torturing Jack was, he had to admit, rather appealing, just because of everything the pig-headed bastard had put him through, and he was not opposed to a bit of groveling. On the other hand, he had not expected for them to actually see each other again, much less Jack doing anything that looked like taking responsibility for their cavalcade of catastrophes. It was doing odd things to his insides, twisting them in knots, looking at Jack and noticing that he had a faint line of freckles across both cheekbones, barely visible in the darkness of his suntan. That rim of gold around his eyes which Sam had noticed for the first time back in bloody Nevis, at the start of all this, and the artful way in which his loosened black hair had fallen in his face. Sam was vaguely aware that he was staring, and that he was probably not helping his air of haughty disdain by it, but he couldn't stop.  _God._

"Well," Jack said, when Sam didn't answer. He seemed even more uncertain. "I – I don't suppose you can actually forgive me, but I… well. I wanted you to know that I was sorry. And I'm – I'm happy you didn't die. If that's all, I – "

He made a move as if he was going to get up, and Sam decided, just then, to utter and absolute hell with it. He didn't know if he had in fact forgiven Jack, though his resolve not to do so was crumbling like quicksand, but he just knew that he was not about to let this exasperating, elusive, contradictory, contrary, prickly, passionate, tongue-tied total bleeding idiot out of here without doing it. He reached out, grabbed hold of Jack by the shirt, and pulled him back down. Then while Jack was still looking astonished, Sam took hold of his head in both hands and kissed him.

He meant it to be something like it had been on the  _Titania,_ a furious and explosive release of anger and tension and confrontation, and there was something of that in it, to be sure. But it was also something decidedly different as well. Jack's hands floated up to take hold of Sam in turn, and they turned their heads, opened their mouths, and closed their eyes. It was hot and hungry, then softer and slow, clumsy and tentative. It was impossible, Sam thought dimly, to tell which of them was more terrified. One of his hands let go of Jack's face and skimmed down his side, and Jack shifted, pulling him into his lap. This sent a bolt of pain up Sam's own side, which he ignored, but his hiss was enough to make Jack pull back from him sharply, looking horrified. "I – Jesus. Did I – fuck. I'm sorry, I didn't – "

"I…" Sam's voice was hoarse, drunk, dreaming. "No, I… it's all right, I just… I was shot not too terribly long ago, that's all."

"Aye, you were." Jack seemed to seize gratefully onto the reminder. "You're not well. I should definitely – "

"I swear," Sam warned him, as Jack seemed about to push him off his lap and run. "If you do that, I  _am_ shouting for Grandpa. Look, we… there's clearly  _something_ between us, all right? At least we do want to snog each other, apparently. Or it seems like it. If I'm wrong, if it's not actually something you want, could you just… bloody tell me?"

"It's…" Jack hesitated, hands still lingering on Sam's hips, which did nothing for Sam's clear and logical train of thought. "It's complicated. I just… I don't know. I've never felt this, I've never  _wanted_  to be with anyone. Before… it's only ever been business, it was something I had to do. With you, it's not like that, and I… I'm frightened, all right? I'm frightened. Of not knowing, of fucking it all up again, and… losing you."

Sam blinked. This sounded as if it was veering dangerously close to Jack admitting that he wanted to have him to lose in the first place, but better not to press one's luck. But Jack had been honest, at least, and he tried to repress a brief, instinctive prickle of hurt, a fear that Jack would decide otherwise, that he didn't want him, or this, or it. Whatever on earth that was. "So," he said. "Is this about snogging and… what comes after snogging? You know I'm not exactly an expert on that either. If you don't want to, well, do more than snogging, or you don't want to snog at all, we don't have to snog again, or we can snog less, or – " He stopped. "God, I am saying  _snogging_ a lot, aren't I? This is really embarrassing."

Jack buzzed a painful laugh, reaching up to smooth a strand of Sam's hair out of his face. "Never change."

Sam blinked again. He very much did want to snog Jack, and he was also quite interested in what came after snogging, but he didn't want to insist on it, especially if he wasn't sure that Jack wanted it in return. Once more, he tried to fight away the old, creeping demon of unworthiness, the idea that of course Jack didn't want him in that way, that he was not good enough to be fully loved.  _This is about him, you idiot, it's not about you._ He sat there, trying to look cool and composed and not excessively affected by Jack's answer one way or the other, but his heart was pounding almost out of his throat.  _Come on, say something._

"I…" Jack let out a long, rattling sigh. "I still don't know. But I want to find out. I think I do, or at least I might, want it with you. This is different, it's different from anything I've known or anything I've felt, but it's… Jesus, it's the strongest thing I've ever felt in my life, and I want to at least know what it is. With you." He blew out another breath. "Sometime."

"Oh?" Sam's heart was now hammering so fast that he wondered if he might in fact faint. "Well… we'll keep it in mind for… for sometime, then?"

"Aye." At last, Jack Bellamy actually smiled, in that way he had when Sam informed him that he had been raised better than to disrespect women, open and real and bright, that completely transformed his face. At that, Sam wondered if he was going to faint again, for a different reason, and Jack eased Sam off his lap and back down into his blankets. "I'd better go before your grandfather comes barging in here with a hatchet. But we'll… talk more. Later."

"All right." Sam desperately did not want him to go, felt like laughing and crying and then laughing some more, but he also needed some time to process this, to wrap it up and hold it close and look at it like a small and precious thing in his hands. "Later."

Jack looked back at him for a long moment, then nodded. Let himself out, and the door fell gently closed behind him.

It took a few more days after that, and Sam got increasingly restive, before he was finally able to get out of bed, well supported by Dad, and walk around without either wanting to immediately curl up into a ball or be very sick. His strength was quickly returning, however, and something on the order of a week and a half since they had arrived on the island, his aunt, who had been helping with his care from Merlin's stash of weird-arse medicines, said that he should be able to travel soon. His arm was knitting well, though he still would have a gnarly scar, which was indeed preferable to it being lopped off. "Besides," she said. "I want to get back to Nassau. I need – I'd very much like to see Henry again."

"Er," Sam said. "I'd like to see him too, actually. Aunt Regina, I – I'm sorry about Uncle Liam."

Regina gave him a polite, slightly remote smile. "Liam was consistent," she said. "Protecting his family was always the most important thing to him. I left him and came along because I wanted to help protect you. Either way, I won't be returning to Paris. I'll have to make arrangements to have our house sold and our things shipped here, but I don't want to go back, and especially not alone. I may look into getting a place in Philadelphia, close to Henry and Violet and their children. I think I'd like that."

"I'm sure they'd like it too." Sam knew that this wasn't his fault, that Liam and the others – including Charlotte – had made their own choices to stay, but he couldn't help but feel the weight of it, and the grief. "Thank you. For helping me."

Regina didn't answer, but after a moment she clumsily patted his shoulder, got up, and turned to go. Sam thought she might have bit a sob, but either way, she clearly did not want to cry in front of him. He lay back down in his blankets, feeling very old for being only twenty. He had not seen Jack since their impromptu heart-to-heart and kiss, and was wondering if Jack had changed his mind, if Grandpa was going to have to horse-collar him again and drag him back if that was what it took for another actual conversation. Sam was almost healed in body, having the benefit of youth and resiliency, but his mind remained stranger, darker, not who he used to be, not sure he could go back. The other night, he had dreamed about the three men he had killed, in revenge for Nathaniel. He had dreamed about Billy, staggering after Sam shot him.  _I didn't used to be a killer. I didn't used to be all of this. I would trade all of them back if it meant I could just bring Nathaniel home like I promised. I still have to talk to his parents. I still have to go every day without seeing him again. I still have to know it was me._

They left the next morning. There were many hugs and handshakes on the beach as Lancelot, Ursula, Merlin, and Nemo saw them off; Madi had briefly considered staying, but decided that she wanted to return to her life and her work on Nassau with Max. Then Sam got into the boat with his family, and they made their way out to the  _Rose,_ which his sister and Jim Hawkins, and a few of the remaining crew members, looked to have patched up a bit. The old girl had served stoutly and well, and Sam patted her rail affectionately as he climbed on board. This of course was the first time he remembered actually seeing his family's ship for a while, as he had been unconscious for the duration of his outward journey on it, and it definitely appeared that she had been through the gristmill. Sam glanced at Jack, who was also climbing aboard, and wondered if this was the time for their promised next conversation, but he didn't want to push.

The air was downright cold as they cast off, raising the anchor and setting the sails, still waving to Nemo and the Maroons on shore. It was a journey of about two or three days west to Nassau from here, and that chill bite reminded Sam that it was almost winter. It was clear that they were going to spend some time there to see if their castaways returned, or had returned already (though that seemed unwarrantedly optimistic) and would not be returning home to Savannah until sometime in the new year. At least that put off the reckoning with the Hunts, but this did not cheer Sam up at all. He stood at the railing, staring out to sea until his eyes blurred with tears.  _If we won, if our enemies are dead, if everyone else is at peace now, is happy, then why am I still so bloody heartbroken?_

He kept to himself for most of the journey, though Uncle Thomas came down to provide company and play cards with him, tactfully avoiding any emotional subjects and steering the conversation to light and general themes. Sam thanked him for saving his life, which Thomas modestly dismissed. But on the last night, with the news that they should be arriving in Nassau in the morning, Thomas finally said, "So, my boy. You and Jack?"

"I have no idea." Sam stared at his cards until the suits began to blur, and he wasn't sure if one was a club or a spade. Both of which he might like to hit Jack over the head with, incidentally. "I thought we might be starting something, but he's avoiding me again."

Thomas looked at him wisely. After a moment he said, "I am certainly not suggesting that all the initiative in this potential liaison should be yours, but I will say that you need to be patient with Jack. As well, perhaps after he sought you out, or rather James forced him to seek you out – " he added wryly – "he's waiting for you to come to him, rather than presume upon you once more. You know him better than I do, but I am, regretfully, somewhat experienced in the matter of seeing a man so broken by the world that he has forgotten, if he ever knew at all, how to accept love and tenderness and care. Do you want there to be something? Whatever that is?"

"Yes," Sam said, before he could think better of it. "Yes. Yes, I do. I want it. I want him. I don't even know why, he's a complete brick-headed claptrap nincompoop who attracts trouble like breathing, but I…" He shook his head. "It's ridiculous. But I do."

Thomas' eyes twinkled. "Likewise," he said, "I know a thing or two about loving a man who corresponds to that description. And if you will allow me, I can say that while we were working to save you,I was left in altogether no doubt that Jack feels the same way. Don't give up. But I think, as well, that it may be your turn to go to him."

This was a very alarming prospect to Sam, to the point where he almost found himself not blaming Jack for shirking it earlier. He opened and shut his mouth, then nodded. "Yeah," he said, sounding rather too bluff and hearty and all-right-about-this to be genuine. "Got it."

Thomas looked at him gently, but didn't say anything else. They finished their game, put out the candles, and, listening to the darkness and the sea, went to sleep.

As promised, they made it to Nassau the next morning, on a clear and crisp and pale day that smelled like woodsmoke and mud and wind. It was the biggest city Sam had seen since Bridgetown, and possibly Havana, months and months ago, and a sight for sore eyes after his disagreeable sojourn far closer to nature than he felt like being again, at least for a while. The  _Rose_ sailed into the harbor and put down anchor, they went ashore, and finally, finally made it back to the rest of their family, at his uncle Charles' townhouse in the city. Sam found himself being hugged by just about everyone, by everyone again, and then once more by Henry, clapping him on the shoulder and staring at him and ruffling his hair and hugging him again. "Jesus, little brother, you scared the hell out of everyone!"

"Sorry," Sam said inanely, managing a grin. He wondered if they were expecting old, happy-go-lucky, family jokester Sam, and felt that he might have to work up to that again. He turned to hug his sister-in-law Violet, wave at his niece Lucy and nephew Richard, hug his uncle Charlie, shake hands somewhat awkwardly with Captain David Nolan, and then spot a little girl he didn't know, with springy dark curls and light brown skin. She was peering in rather shyly at the goings-on, and he waved at her too. "Hey. Hi."

She blinked at him, edged carefully into the sitting room crowded and noisy and warm with reunions, and then spotted Jack, who was likewise lurking at the edge of the throng as if not certain that he belonged there. A shocked and then delighted expression spread across her face, as did a gap-toothed grin, and she hurled herself at his shins. "Uncle Jack!"

Jack staggered, looked around, looked down, and saw her. Another of those impossibly lovely, heart-twisting smiles appeared on his face in return, and he reached down immediately to scoop her up. "Hey, Ceci. How are you? Have you been good?"

"I missed you," the girl – Cecilia, it must be, his niece – said, throwing her arms around his neck. "I missed you a lot."

"I missed you too," Jack informed her. "And I've had a lot of very silly adventures, believe me. I'll tell you about them later."

Cecilia looked thrilled, but a frown slowly replaced her joy as she looked around the room, expecting to see someone who was not there. "Where's Aunt Charlotte?"

"She…" Jack hesitated. They had not seen the  _Griffin_ in the harbor, and the port master had no news of any Navy officers arriving, much less the well-known and notorious John Silver, on that vessel or any other. (He had, however, looked inclined to dodge away from Flint and Geneva, whom he had evidently made enemies of at an earlier date.) "Well, she… did a very brave thing. She killed a very bad man a while ago, actually, and she told me about it. I was angry, but… anyway. She stayed behind to help fight off the Spanish, on Skeleton Island."

"But she's coming back," Cecilia said, frown deepening. "She's coming  _back?"_

"I…." Jack was clearly to be observed struggling for the right way to break this news to a child who had already lost both her parents and been uprooted to run away across the Atlantic to the colonies, and was considered somewhat beneath polite society merely for the color of her skin. "I don't know, Ceci. I hope so. But I don't know."

Cecilia's face remained uncertain a moment longer, then slowly, silently crumpled. Jack carried her around the corner, out of sight, as Sam stared after them, feeling two inches tall. Charlotte should have come back here, not him. Charlotte had been the brave one, Charlotte was Jack's real friend and confidante, Cecilia's surrogate mother, the one who – as Sam had heard – had killed Captain Jonathan Howe, Jack's monster of a father who had made his life such a misery. Charlotte didn't deserve to be the one left facing the Spanish guns.  _It should be me._

Emma touched his arm. "Sam? Sam, sweetheart. Are you all right?"

"Fine, Mum," Sam said, bending his face into what he hoped was a halfway passable smile. "I'm just really tired. I think I'm going to go to bed for a while, eh?"

Emma looked at him, with that unfortunate maternal sixth sense that he was not, in fact, fine. "Do you want me to – get you something to eat or anything?"

"No, Mum, I'm actually not hungry. For once." Sam backed out from under her hand. "Go… catch up with Henry and Uncle Charlie and everyone, all right? I bet they have a lot to tell you. I think I need to be alone for a while."

Emma looked at him a long moment more, then nodded, worry still visible in her eyes, as Sam excused himself and made his way upstairs to one of the spare bedrooms. He climbed under the covers, pulled them over his head, and buried his face in the pillow, listening to the dull buzz and hum of talk and laughter through the floorboards. He tried desperately to be happy that the family was all together, that they were all safe, and he was. But the price that he had paid to do that, as he had tried so hard for, offered up at every turn, felt close to impossible.  _I'll get over this. I'll be fine. I will be. In time._

Exhausted and completely heartbroken, he lay there in a haze, the short winter shadows shifting on the wall (they had been informed that it was in fact a solid week into November) until he finally dropped into a restless sleep. He dreamed about something, though he didn't remember what. He was stirred at last, sometime in a chilly gunmetal dusk, by a soft knock on the door.

Sam groaned, pulling his face out of the pillow. Probably Mum with some tea, which he wouldn't say no to, actually. "Come in."

A pause, and then the latch clicked, the hinges creaking. He looked up, and realized then that it wasn't Mum.  _Oh, Jesus._

Jack shut the door behind him, then cautiously made his way over, perching on the end of the bed as if expecting Sam to shove him off. "Are you all right?"

Sam was on the verge of firing back with some sharp reply about how of course he wasn't bloody all right, you pillock, but he just didn't have the energy to bicker with Jack right now. He flopped onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, feeling as dramatic as a lady swooning on the fainting couch, then finally said, "Shouldn't you be with Cecilia?"

"Violet took her." Jack paused. "She's… she's upset."

"Of course she is," Sam said. "I would be too. It's stupid. It's stupid that Charlotte didn't come back. It's stupid that Uncle Liam didn't come back. They were both there because of me. Just like Nathaniel. It all comes back to me."

Jack opened his mouth, then decided against saying anything. Instead he reached down and took Sam's hand, closing it in his own large, rough, long-fingered one, thumb working absently against Sam's palm. At last he said, "I'm sorry."

"Me too." Sam's chest felt choked with tears. "And by the way, you don't need to explain why you're here, I understand. It would be completely indecent to start any sort of – well, anything, given that Charlotte's gone and you're going to have to be Cecilia's main caretaker from now on. She should come first, I absolutely agree. You need to focus on her, and you have my blessing to do that." He inhaled. "There. That should cover it. Anything else?"

He didn't want to look at Jack's face, but there was a brief, delicate silence. Then Jack said, "That actually wasn't what I came here to say."

"Oh?" Sam kept his gaze on the ceiling. "What was it, then?"

"I just wanted to ask…" Jack paused. "If you wanted me to stay with you for a while."

At that, Sam's fragile heart almost smashed entirely. His eyes welled up with tears before he could stop them, spilling down his cheeks, and he thought about flatly dismissing this offer, but could not for the life of him do it. "Yeah," he said croakily. "Yeah, I would."

Jack hesitated, then got up, kicked off his boots, and pulled down the covers, which Sam had knotted around himself like a hermit crab's shell. He slid in beside him, tugged them back up, and put his arms around Sam, pulling him into his chest. "Hey," he said gruffly. "Hey, it's all right now. It's all right. Eh? Shh. It's all right."

Sam reached up, sliding his arms around Jack's torso and tucking his head under Jack's chin, their legs entangling beneath the quilts, their breathing short and ragged. Neither of them said a word, or moved, or stirred, for the longest while, as the twilight receded off the walls and the darkness came instead, soft and constant. Sam listened to the deep, steady thump of Jack's heart beneath his ear, buried himself against that large and solid and warm presence, and finally let out a long, shaking sigh. "Hey," he whispered. "Will you stay?"

Jack didn't answer, but after a moment, Sam felt him nod. Then he leaned down, and kissed Sam's head. "I'll stay," he said. "Get some sleep."

One last time, Sam was about to contradict him, or refuse. In this case, however, it was because he did not want to go to sleep, not when he could stay awake and remember this, remember them. But he couldn't, and he was so tired of keeping them apart, and this felt like the first real and true and right thing since his miraculous return to life. As if it might not be all right just now, but this, here, was what could be. That this might, at last, bring him home.

He settled deeper into Jack's arms, and closed his eyes, and fell asleep.


	31. XXXI

The morning was perfect and crisp and clear, sunlight slanting through the mist rising off the water, as Geneva stood by the quay, staring at the bustle in the harbor. She could see at once, just as she had for the previous three weeks she had been here, that the  _Griffin_ had not arrived overnight, nor had any other particularly noteworthy vessels, and she was irritated that she seemed to have taken it upon herself to keep the family vigil. Silver and the others would come back from Skeleton Island eventually, or they wouldn't, and no amount of looking was going to change that. She just hoped they weren't planning to stay here on Nassau for another twenty-odd years, or however long they had held onto her godfather, the last loved one they had lost in the sea, before giving them up as gone and moving on. Besides, Geneva reminded herself. It was a brisk constitutional, on her way, and it didn't hurt to keep an eye on, just in case. Her uncle Liam was more of the family's concern.  _If you actually wanted to go talk to your family._

Geneva turned away, skirts and cloak tugged in the breeze, and started her usual route along the waterfront. There were only so many times she could make excuses to go check on the  _Rose,_ seeing as it was sedately at anchor and did not need tending or resupplying, and much as Geneva loved her ship, she had no desire to spend more time on it for the considerably foreseeable future. Nor was she used to sitting on shore without much to do, except for helping Madi and Max with the accounts and business and other commerce of the island. Paperwork and ledgers and the minutiae of merchant politics were not Geneva's forte, however, and she did not possess the same intricate knowledge of New Providence's inner workings as the older women. She felt superfluous, pointless, restless, and she wanted to be  _doing_ something, but every time she tried, her odd malaise deepened. At least getting out here made her feel like she was.

She was a familiar enough sight on the docks by now (and had punched in the nose one local specimen who apparently thought he was an irresistible prospect) that the only looks she got were brief nods and acknowledgements and mumbled "g'morning, ma'am"-s. As ever, she reminded herself that they were lucky to be here, lucky to be safe, lucky to have the chance to rest. There were too many of them to fit into Uncle Charlie's house alone, so Henry and his family were remaining there, along with Regina, and Jack and Cecilia Bell were there too to keep Cecilia close to the Swans after the loss of her aunt. David Nolan had rented a spacious townhouse nearby, and Grandpa, Granny, Uncle Thomas, Mother, Daddy, and Sam were living there. They would have happily hosted Geneva as well, but much as she loved her family, there were quite a lot of them right now, and she was aware of a need for space. So she had accepted Madi's offer to stay with her, as there was room in the villa and no need to talk if she did not want to, which helped. As for Jim, he had taken up at a boarding house, as it was still a bit much to expect him and Killian Jones to be around each other on a regular basis. They had made an awkward attempt at building bridges, but a distinct stiffness remained.

Geneva reached the end of the harbor walk, checked one more time over her shoulder, and started to climb toward the street. She recalled her condition to Uncle Charlie that she carry out this errand for him, which was that he owed her excellent Christmas presents for at least ten years, and as it was now past the first of December, she might soon get to see if he was holding up his end of the bargain. She almost didn't care if he did or not. Charlie had taken her to supper, apologized profusely for the terrors that she, her crew, and her ship had endured on his behalf, and assured her that he considered the account more than settled. At the end, however, he delicately asked if they had managed to retrieve any of the fabled Skeleton Island treasure, and Geneva had nearly walked out. Her uncle was a merchant, with a merchant's concerns, and of course she knew that he had never meant to hurt her. She was almost grateful, in a way. But that hadn't stopped her from being bloody angry, and she was afraid that one of these days, she might lose her self-control and shout at him. For what, she wasn't even sure.  _Being tricked by, being frightened of Long John Silver? That is mere sense, not a sinister conspiracy._

Once she had reached the street, Geneva tried to decide where she wanted to go next. She might go take breakfast with her parents and grandparents and check in on her brother, but she could tell that Sam was more than a little tired of being fretted over. He was still not up to anything too strenuously physical, which likewise was driving him mental. He was always out in search of another adventure, but the last one had left him deeply scarred in more ways than one, and he had lost his customary partner on them, his best friend Nathaniel. Geneva could see that he was struggling, as could their parents, and Killian and Emma had worriedly encouraged Sam to talk to them, but he had taken to spending most of his time in bed with the curtains shut. A few times a week, Jack came over to visit him, which seemed to be most of what he looked forward to.  _We saved his body, but what about his mind?_

Geneva tried to think of something her brother would like, something to bring him as a gift. A book? He wasn't terribly much of a reader, but at least it might transport him somewhere outside his troubled head. Books were her usual failsafe gift for her grandparents, but she was less certain what would interest Sam. Still, there was a small print shop along the way, which usually had some new editions from London, and she picked her skirts out of the muck and headed in.

After a quick browse did not come up with anything she thought he would like (although there was a new brick of a novel called  _Pamela: Or Virtue Rewarded_ by one Messr. Samuel Richardson, which Geneva paid three shillings for and decided to give to her grandparents for Christmas), she finally settled on a blank book, handsomely bound in buckram and edged in gilt. It was, the proprietor assured her, a capital item for jotting down any philosophical thoughts or moral instructions that might suddenly occur to her husband, and Geneva was so annoyed that she nearly returned  _Pamela_ on the spot. Once she had icily reminded him that  _mirabile visu,_ women were literate and had thoughts, she had also sufficiently embarrassed him into giving her half off on the price, and took the brown-wrapped parcels, tucked them under her arm, gave him another basilisk stare, and departed.

She climbed the rest of the street, up to Captain Nolan's rented townhouse, and knocked. It was answered by the housekeeper that had come with it, and she made her way to the solarium in the back, where her family was just finishing breakfast – along with a pale and wan-looking Sam, who was nibbling unenthusiastically on his crumpet with cream. If he wasn't eating, something was clearly seriously amiss, and Geneva, knowing that he didn't want to be treated like an invalid, strode over and tousled his hair. "Hey, twerp. You're up, eh?"

Sam gave her a look as if this was obvious, but managed to smile. "Hey."

Geneva squeezed his shoulder, then kissed her grandmother and Thomas, gave her grandfather a one-armed hug, and exchanged a slightly stilted nod with her parents. Then she picked up the top parcel and handed it to Sam. "Early Christmas present. Open it."

Sam looked surprised, but obligingly tore off the butcher paper, removing the blank book and looking momentarily confused. "Is it supposed to have words?"

"No, that's the point." Geneva twisted her skirt between her fingers. "I actually thought it might help if you could write down everything you've been thinking about. That way you don't have to talk to any of us, if you don't want to, and you wouldn't have to just let it stew."

Sam blinked. "I… guess I could give that a try. It's not like I have anything better to do. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Geneva glanced at her parents, who had clearly been trying not to ask. "I haven't seen the  _Griffin,_ by the way. They're not back. Still."

Sam cringed, and she almost bit her tongue off. "Hey." She reached out and grabbed his hand, holding it tight, even as he tried to pull it back. "Hey. Listen to me. That is not your fault. It is not your fault, and I need you to know that. I'll keep telling you, even if you don't believe me or any of us. Do you want to go out for a walk, or – or something? It's really nice today. We could get dressed and go over to see Jack, eh? How about that?"

"I think…" Sam stared down at the table, then pushed his plate of breakfast away. "Actually, I'll… I think I'm just going to go back to bed."

Geneva watched him go with a sick, sour feeling in her stomach, as if she had helped with one hand and slapped him across the face with the other. Flint, Miranda, Thomas, Killian, and Emma were also observing with deep frowns, and when the solarium door had shut, Thomas said quietly, "He needs more help. There were some patients like that in – in Bethlem. They'd been through something terrible, and it shocked them, did something to their minds, made them withdraw into themselves and be unable to do anything but relieve their worst experiences. Of course, the asylum masters' preferred method of dealing with it was to confine them more, or order them to pray more stringently, or to administer ice baths or other forms of barely disguised torture. None of it, of course, did the slightest bit of good."

Flint and Miranda both looked at him with the quiet, agonized expression they always wore whenever Thomas mentioned the asylum in front of them, and he quickly squeezed their hands. "No, my dear ones, it's quite all right. I managed to escape such treatments. I told them lie after lie about how I had realized the folly of my ways and how sorely I repented of them, and how very praiseworthy their actions were. That was why, after three years, I was approved for release to the colonies, and the plantation. But Sam is just a lad, and he does not have that same armor or that same instinct to defend himself. I can try to talk to him again, but I am not sure he can ever lift that weight of guilt until we know the others are alive."

"And if they aren't?" Flint said. "If John fucking Silver is going to pull that nonsense again, the least, the  _least_ he can bloody do is find some way to – " He stopped. "To save them."

"I hope so," Thomas said. "And I believe so. I saw that man conjure doorways out of solid rock, even as you must have many times. Even given the magnitude of the task that faces him, I do not think it is beyond his capabilities. I realize the irony of what I am enjoining you to, nor did I expect to be doing it either, but you must trust him, James. One last time."

Flint looked uncertain how to answer that. "Even if so," he said after a moment, "that doesn't help with Sam right now, does it?"

"No," Thomas agreed, "it does not. As I said, I will see what I can do for him in the meantime, and I certainly hope their return will be sooner rather than later. But of course, that is something we ourselves cannot control, and I know that is… difficult."

Flint, who would prefer to be hung by his thumbs in meetings of the King's Privy Council for a fortnight rather than not control everything, snorted. But there was real concern in his expression, as he had fought every foe that could be met with sword and pistol, cutlass and cannon, but had still never quite learned how to tame the demons of his own head, and so could not help his grandson do the same. "Well," he said. "Please do talk to him, then."

"Yes, of course." Thomas looked at Geneva. "Will you be joining us, my dear? There's still some tea left in the pot if you want to sit down."

"I… I don't know, actually." Geneva had a feeling that they might start asking her how  _she_ was if she stayed, and while she was outwardly holding it together, she wasn't sure that she wanted to get into her own dislocation and disorder. "I – I should get back and help Madi. If you – if you didn't have anything to – "

"Nonsense," Thomas said firmly. "Sit down and have a crumpet."

Since she  _was_ rather hungry, and since if Sam wasn't eating, it seemed a pity for it to go to waste, Geneva sat down in his vacated chair and tidily put away the remainder of his crumpet. She was induced to accept some tea as well, and was just about to ask how long past the new year they were planning to stay, when they heard a knock on the front door, down the hall. They all turned at once, doubtless half-wondering if their discussion had magically summoned back their missing persons, but when the housekeeper returned, it was with a familiar, neatly gowned figure at her heels. "It's Mistress… Max, sirs, mums. Did you want to receive her over breakfast, or should I tell her to call again later?"

"No, it's all right," Miranda said, as ever acting as the hostess in the gathering. "We have an extra place. Some more tea, if you would be so good?"

The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy and scuttled off, which Flint regarded with annoyance. "Is there any chance we can get her to stop doing that?"

"I daresay she's quite terrified having to live under the same roof as you," Miranda said patiently. Then she beckoned Max to the empty chair beside Geneva, which the factor slid into with her usual poise. "To what do we owe the… pleasure?" A slight question hung over her words, as it was clear that Max would not be here for a mere social courtesy.

"I was only wondering," Max said. "Whether Charlotte Bell was back yet?"

"She is… not, no. We were in fact just discussing that absence." Miranda regarded the other woman consideringly. "I know that you and she were rather. . . impressed by the other, when we were in Nassau before. Is it merely a matter of personal concern?"

"Not precisely, no." Max's dark gaze flickered, but her composure did not, as ever, falter. "It is only that during the night she spent at my establishment, she told me some details of her personal situation. I am unsure if those are for me to reveal. Do you know of what I speak?"

"She told me," Killian said. "And, I imagine, Miranda. That was because I met the woman I suspect we may be speaking of, Alix St. Clair, while I was in France. Am I wrong?"

"You are not, no." Max looked at the two of them levelly, ignoring the confused glances from everyone else. "In any event, Charlotte told me enough for me to make a few enquiries. I thought it sounded. . . quite familiar. And in turn, I have uncovered answers, which I was intending to relay to Charlotte, if she was here. Given that she is not – "

"Did Jenny tell you?" Flint said unexpectedly. "About Eleanor Guthrie?"

Max's eyes flickered again, and it seemed to take her longer to come up with an answer. After a moment she said, "She did, yes. She said as well that you were kind to her. That you allowed her to believe that her son was with her again, and that she died having been able to make peace with him. It was a generous thing you did for a woman we both once cared about very much. If you were thinking of crassly trading on it in an attempt to leverage information from me, then that, however, is less admirable."

Flint opened his mouth, then shut it, and he and Max stared at each other, in the nature of two people who had known each other for a very long time and were familiar with the other's weak points and methods of operation, who had lived in the same world and with the same side but never quite become friends. The silence was only broken by Emma rather pointedly clearing her throat. "Do you have anything you can share with us, then?"

"I suppose there is, yes," Max said, after one more look at Flint. "Leaving aside the question of Alix's whereabouts, or her relation to Charlotte, or anything else that is not general knowledge, her name, her real name, is not Alix St. Clair. She does not know this, I am quite sure. When she was born, she was placed with a wealthy French planter and his wife, on the island of Saint-Domingue, for them to raise as their own. That, however, according to Charlotte, clearly did not work as planned, and I must bear some responsibility for that. You see, the reason Alix was sent there as an infant was because I sent her there. I was the one who found a family that I thought would be able to provide for her comfort and happiness, among my old. . . connections on the island. I never met the St. Clairs in person, and relied upon the account my courier gave me. That was a grievous mistake. Armand St. Clair transpired to be a bad man, and has made Alix's life most unwarrantedly difficult. They returned to France when she was three, evidently, or I would have caught wind of the situation long before and done something about it. But." Max shook her head, lips pressed into a grim line. "I failed her. And I must make that right."

None of this made the devil of any sense to Geneva, but glancing at her father, she saw him looking as if he had been hit on the head with a frying pan. After a long pause Killian said, "Mademoiselle St. Clair said, after I rescued her from the ruffians in Le Havre, that her father had sent them after her. I didn't get the feeling that he was much of a delightful bloke, no. But you –  _you_ placed her with them? What the – why would you – "

Flint's eyes flared. "Jesus. Wait. Is Alix – is she –  _theirs?"_

Max looked back at him, then nodded.

"Anyone want to – ?" Geneva was tired of feeling so utterly wrong-footed, and her grandfather and father seemed to be the only ones who had a clue, the former more than the latter. "Is Alix – I don't even know who this woman is, would  _someone_ like to explain?"

At that, it was Emma's turn to look thunderstruck. "I asked you," she said to Max. "When we were here the last time, I asked you what happened to the  _Jolie Rouge,_ and Rackham and Anne. You told me that Jack was hanged in Jamaica, but you arranged for Anne and Mary Read to escape on the  _Jolie_ because she was – "

"Oh, fuck," Killian said, talking over her. "You told me on the  _Nautilus_ , love, about their fate. Just as we were passing Antigua. So Alix is – "

"Oh," Miranda said. "Oh my. So she's – "

Thomas and Geneva, the only ones who had not yet put together the pieces that the rest of their family had finally stumbled upon, stared at each other in complete bewilderment. Finally Flint, taking pity on them, said, "Alix is Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny's daughter, isn't she. Anne couldn't be hanged with Rackham because she was pregnant. You arranged for them to escape, for Anne to have the child in some place of safety, and then for the baby to be collected and given a good home on Saint-Domingue. Only Armand St. Clair turned out to be a bastard, and that is why he's made such an effort to prevent the girl from returning to the Americas and any discovery of her pirate roots. And that, therefore, is why you feel so beholden to find her and make it right. How could you do anything else, for Anne's girl?"

Max hesitated a final moment, then nodded again.

"Jesus." Flint rubbed a hand over his beard, almost looking impressed. "Jesus, well, that explains the almighty fuck of a lot. And Charlotte. . . Alix is her lover, isn't she? But neither of them know about this. Of all the coincidences, Charlotte fell in love with the daughter of pirates, and married the nephew of another. Jack, he's – he's Black Sam's nephew."

"Anyone with eyes could have seen that," Max informed him, lest Flint think he was getting one up on her with intelligence she somehow did not have. "But so it would indeed appear."

"So this was the particular friend in France that Charlotte wanted to rescue this whole time." Flint barked a laugh, looking as if Charlotte was actually there, he might shake her hand, just in recognition of the fact that not even he had seen this coming. He glanced at Killian. "So you rescued the daughter of the  _Jolie's_ captain – and I don't mean poor dead Rackham, but Anne, since there's a chance that she and Miss Read are still out there with it. If there was any justice in the world, which we know there isn't, you'd get a chance to see your old ship again out of this, but still. I'd suggest killing St. Clair, but like fuck am I sailing all the way to France to do it. Is there any way we can find out where the girl is?"

"She said she was sailing for Philadelphia," Killian said to Max. "Did you know that?"

"No," Max said. "But Charlotte told me that they kept a home there, so I assumed it was a reasonable destination. I sent men there, not long after you left, with orders to return only when they had found Alix. As they have not returned, I take it they have not found her."

"Well," Flint said. "I don't feel any particular obligation on the chinless wonder's behalf, but Anne was a brave fighter, and I know you two and Rackham had your triumvirate. As well, we've come to know Charlotte, and she did bravely on Skeleton Island. She deserved – deserves – a chance to see Alix again. Keep us informed if you do turn her up."

Max inclined her head. "If you do likewise with Charlotte."

"You see." Flint eyed her with his half-amused, half-cold green gaze. "I don't believe that you didn't know she was not back. You know everything that goes on in this place, you always have. You knew before you arrived here that she would not be present to inform, and yet you put yourself to the bother of the journey, and then telling us regardless of your protestations of confidentiality. You know that we have some care and concern for Charlotte ourselves, and that the  _Jolie Rouge_ is, of course, Killian's old ship. One might almost suspect that you were feeling us out for yet another venture to track down the girl, or Anne and Miss Read, or any other of the persons which you yourself care about. You told me last time in no uncertain terms that you would not tolerate competition for the rule of the island, or for me to get up to my old tricks, and yet. Perhaps you hoped that Flint, or failing that, Hook, might be up for one last favor. So do you really want him gone, or not?"

Max's complexion was too dark to properly flush, but it increased several shades in color. After a pause, she inclined her head again, and without a word, elegantly withdrew.

"Knew it," Flint remarked. "Another damn-fool venture is the last thing we need. Do you suppose we have to tell Jack about this?" He brightened. "Maybe he'll leave."

"James, no," Miranda said, somewhat sharply. "It does not surprise me in the least that a pair of consummate manipulators such as yourself and Max are still testing and teasing each other, constantly daring each other to put one more foot over the line, but we have discussed this. And given as Jack is all but Sam's sole comfort at the moment, I would regard very thinly any plan that proposes to separate them. We are all aware, as you say, that we have just returned from one adventure from whence we scarcely escaped with our skins. Max said that she sent her own men to Philadelphia, so we do not need to pursue it any further."

Flint looked miffed. "But that's not the – "

"One would think a man your age would take up bridge as a hobby," Thomas remarked, sounding as if he was biting his cheek. "Or perhaps bird-watching. But on a more serious note, James, I would suggest that you cannot be here long without the overwhelming urge to become your old self. We have to remain here a while yet, so please.  _Attempt_  to refrain."

"I'm not going to hare off after  _Jack Rackham's_ daughter," Flint said, sounding peeved that anyone thought this was a legitimate possibility. "I'm just saying, if Max wants to play it that she has all the control and for me to mind my manners like a good geriatric, she had best not turn about and attempt to recruit us yet again. We have no responsibility to entangle ourselves further in this, especially if – " He hesitated, looking at the door, as if to be sure that there was no risk of Sam overhearing, and lowered his voice anyway. "Especially if they don't come back."

"Jack will be here later to see Sam. We shouldn't keep it from him, but. . ." Emma looked troubled. "If he  _did_ decide to go. . . and we know how much Sam has come to rely on him. . ."

"No," Killian said loudly, startling them. "No, we can't keep this from him in an attempt to ensure that his course of action complies with our interests. That's what Charlotte did with Howe, what I colluded in, and that was what blew up so spectacularly aboard the  _Griffin_ and why she felt that she had to stay behind in the first place. We have to trust him to make his own decision, not force him to stay here for our interests. If he realizes it, he will never again believe that we truly want the best for him, or that anyone does. He will always be a pawn on a chessboard, yet he will think we are even worse, for pretending to care. That at least before, they had the decency to make no secret of hating him. We cannot do that. I will not be a part."

A heavy silence fell in the wake of these words, as Geneva shifted in her seat and almost wished that she hadn't come by the house at all. She didn't want to be part of this, she didn't want the world to keep rolling on and crushing her beneath its wheel, and she didn't want the possibility of Jack running off again, as he clearly would have already done if not for Cecilia and Sam, and slamming shut the small window of light that her brother was clinging to. Intellectually, she agreed with her father, and knew that due to his own past, he was the one of them who understood the most about control and free will and how a man who had not had either would bridle at any attempt to strip it from him. But she also thought that if Jack bleeding Bellamy dared to take one step away from Sam, one step at all, she would take off her shoe and hit him with it until the heel broke. Then she would use the other shoe, and if necessary, a large book. Indeed, the one she had just purchased might be of a suitable size and heft.

After that, however, Geneva couldn't just walk out, and hung restlessly around in the parlor, looking at the clock and wondering when Jack was going to arrive. He finally did so around one o'clock, looking suspicious to see them all sitting in the parlor and clearly trying to pretend that they had not been waiting for him. "Is something – is Sam – ?"

"Sam's all right," Killian said cautiously. "We had – something else you might want to know, though. Max came by earlier, I don't know if you've met Max – "

"I've heard of her." Jack's eyes flicked up to the ceiling. "Can this wait?"

There was a slightly delicate pause. Then Geneva said, "Go up to him. We'll tell you later, actually. I'm sure Sam wants to see you."

Jack did not have any interest in double-checking whether they were sure, and left the room straightaway, so they heard him thumping up the stairs. For her part, Geneva stared defiantly at her parents. "We'll tell him when he comes back. I know you want to do the right thing, and I admire that. But for once, can you not be such  _heroes?"_

Her grandfather made a small noise in his throat, and when Geneva looked over at him, she caught a distinct look of pride on his face. It was then that she was reminded, as she was periodically, how very much like him she was, and to wonder how exactly it had come about.  _Perhaps it is not strange. After all, we are family. It does not matter how._

Once Jack was gone, they kept looking at the ceiling as well, which finally became so intolerable that Geneva finally decided to get this over with herself. As she started up the stairs, determined not to interrupt them but nonetheless to catch Jack on his way out, she heard what sounded like a disagreement from behind Sam's closed door. She screeched to a halt and backpedaled furiously, but did not succeed in getting to the end of the hall before the door whisked open and Jack strode out, looking exactly in the sort of mood he probably should not be in for a conversation like this. At the sight of her, his expression altered from aggravated to suspicious, but in a way that suggested he thought she had come to yell at him some more. "Miss Jones."

"Mr. Bellamy." They eyed each other stiffly, as they had not yet proceeded to the familiarity of first names over their month or so of fraught acquaintance. "Were you leaving already, then?"

"I…" Jack shot a look back at Sam's door, which had been left slightly ajar by his intemperate exit. "I was just… your brother is still wounded, and he's also in no right frame of mind to decide upon… never mind. Rather than argue with him further, I thought I should – well." He looked at her, standing in the hallway as if to block him in. "Be on my way."

Geneva considered him for another moment. They were almost the same age, he and Sam clearly had some sort of unofficial, unspoken relationship, and there remained that strange, tender, painful connection between Jack and the family, and whatever had happened that night in the hut with Merlin. Geneva had seen and heard enough by now to admit that her previous conceptions of Sam Bellamy might have been in error, but even if so, Jack Bellamy was a different kettle of fish, and like her grandfather, she had not quite gotten over her initial wariness of him, even as the rest of their family seemed keen to welcome Jack with open arms. She could have said any number of things, but instead she sighed. "Jack," she said frankly, and saw his eyes widen in surprise. "How about you come with me?"

Jack paused, shot one more look at Sam's door, and then followed her down the back staircase and out toward the garden. Geneva led them to a secluded corner that was away from the house, but still visible from Sam's window, so that if he was inclined to look out, he would see that Jack hadn't left entirely, but was merely receiving a firm talking-to from his sister. Not that Geneva had any idea if that was what this was. She sat down on the bench among the dry winter foliage and beckoned Jack to join her. After a moment he did, shooting a tense sidelong look at her. "Your brother," he said. "I didn't – "

"Just… take a breath, eh?" Geneva rubbed her face. "You and I haven't gotten off on the right foot, we can both admit that, and we're both plenty prickly and stubborn and proud. But we both love Sam, and we both want to help him however we can. I have something I want to say to you later, but how about you start by telling me what happened upstairs?"

Jack blinked. He clearly was not in the habit of talking to anybody about anything, and she could see him debating whether to trust this overture. Finally he said, "Sam wanted to, or thought we should, that we… well. We've… kissed, and sometimes slightly more, but anything else, we…" He trailed off. "I didn't think it was the time for it, and he said I just kept pulling back all the time, and I don't want to hurt him, but he doesn't understand, and…"

Geneva blinked in turn, as this was more than she ever wanted to know about her brother's sex life, but everyone had been saying earlier that more help was needed, and as someone who at least was more experienced in that particular aspect, it fell to her to sort out this mess. "Fine," she said bluntly. "So what's the problem? Do you not want to sleep with him, or is it because you think you'd hurt him when he's still recovering, or – ?"

"It's – everything." Jack stared at his hands. "I have no idea what or how I'd do it. I – I  _want_ to, I think I've decided that much. To try, at least. I want something different with him than what I wanted with Charlotte. But he can't tell me what he likes, since he doesn't know either, and he's in such a bad frame of mind right now, I don't want it to be just a distraction and a trifle and something to occupy our time. Besides, I know how, but I don't… know…  _how."_

Geneva frowned. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning," Jack said, "I know the mechanics of it. To raise money for Charlotte and me to escape London, I worked at the White Swan, it's a house for gentlemen who… prefer gentlemen. But I never  _wanted_ it one way or another. It was just something I had to do and the easiest available option, and I was well used to going away inside my head and waiting for something to be over. But that's not – that's never something I want to do with Sam."

Geneva blinked again, not least at the complete matter-of-factness with which Jack had offered up this information: first that he had worked in a brothel, and that it had not been difficult to separate himself from something happening to his body, so it could not reach his mind. She had not found Jack particularly easy to like, even as she was aware that she had the same general temperament, and yet she realized now that while hers came somewhat naturally, his had been smelted in the forge of some terrible and long-lasting ordeal. She didn't know what that had been exactly, but it was enough to make her briefly heartbroken for whatever other kind of man he could have been, who he had truly been inside, before this left its eternal brand on him. Clumsily, since she was not very good with physical comfort and reassurance, she reached to take his hand and squeeze it. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm sorry you had to do that."

Jack looked even more startled, but he did not quite pull away. Then he said, "Knowing the mechanics doesn't help me. I don't – I  _can't_ treat Sam like one of them. I want to give him what he wants, I want him to be happy, I want him to get better, but I can't do it like that, not when I don't know how, not when he's so fragile. But he thinks that means I don't want him or I'm just being contrary again, or…" He blew out a frustrated breath. "I don't. I… I can't."

"You've explained this to me fairly well," Geneva pointed out. "Have you told him?"

"I… no." Jack shifted slightly away from her hand, as if feeling that he no longer warranted her support. "I don't want to be there with him and talk more about my own nonsense. And I… if he thinks I'm tainted, if he thinks I'm broken, if he…"

"Hey," Geneva said.  _"Hey._ Obviously, I'm not like you. Not in background, not in family, not in how I feel about sex. But believe me, I've heard plenty of bloody goddamn times that  _I'm_ tainted, that I'm not good enough, that I shouldn't be doing a man's job, that I'm too cruel to be a proper lady, that I shouldn't have slept with men if I did not intend to marry them, that I should not have slept with women as it was against God's law, that…" She trailed off, thinking again of George Warrington telling her that she would never find anyone willing to accept all of her more contradictory parts and controversial natures, that she would have to trim herself back and fit into a demure womanly box, and the whispering doubts of Skeleton Island, the ones she had so nearly believed and given into. "Look, just this morning when I went to buy a journal for Sam, the proprietor figured it was for my husband, that I didn't have any thoughts or words worth putting down. I don't believe that he's right. And I don't believe it about you, either."

Jack stared at her. He opened his mouth and then shut it, as if this was such an extraordinary utterance that he could not remotely countenance or process it. "But you're  _not,"_ he said. "You're a captain, you're a leader, you're – "

"All of that is what I do, yes," Geneva said. "And I'm damn good at it. But it's not who I  _am,_ and it doesn't mean that I've gotten here smooth as a breeze, without questioning everything I am, over and over. This last voyage – it was hell, frankly. It was bloody fucking hell. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. I lost my first mate, nearly got the lot of us blown up, learned family history I'd never expected, and had my ship taken out from under my feet by a bunch of men who thought they knew better, first mutineers from my crew and then by Lord Gideon Murray and his redcoats. And all the time, I thought that the only thing I myself did was make it worse. As I said. I know we're not alike. But… maybe we are. A little."

"I'd be… I'd be lucky," Jack said. "To be anything like you."

Geneva smiled, very wryly. "Give yourself a  _little_ credit."

There was a brief pause as they sat there side by side in the sunny winter garden, the distant hum of the Nassau street audible from beyond the wall. Jack's hand tightened suddenly, and Geneva realized he had not quite let go of hers. Then he said, "What did you want to tell me? You said there was something else."

"I – oh. Yes." Geneva almost didn't want to do it now, but she had promised. "Look, earlier, as we said, Max came by here. She had information about your – well, I don't know what the term would be, but your possibly late wife's lover, Alix St. Clair. Who she… really is."

Jack tensed. "Billy Bones said the same thing on the  _Titania_ ," he admitted. "That he knew who she actually was and would hand over the information, if I – well, never mind. Is this some – "

"I think Max can be trusted on this." With that, Geneva economically filled Jack in on what Max had told them about Alix's origins, the arrangements to get her shipped to Saint-Domingue and adopted by a wealthy French couple, and the obligation that Max felt to rescue Anne Bonny's daughter, as Max and Anne had once likewise been lovers and partners in an arrangement with Captain Rackham. "So," she finished up, rather feebly. "That's, ah. That's what it is."

Jack, understandably, was still looking flattened. "Fuck," he said at last. "She's – and I am – the pair of us are pirate blood, eh? And she what – she's in Philadelphia now?"

"We don't know," Geneva cautioned. "She might be. As I said, Max sent men to look for her, once she worked out that it was the same girl. I know you might feel as if you have to go haring off as well, but… I don't think you should. I think you should stay here with Sam."

"But I made a promise." Jack stared at his hands. "I made a promise to Charlotte. That I – that we would rescue Alix, and…"

"So far as I heard," Geneva said, "that arrangement came to an end when she shot Captain Howe and didn't tell you about it. Of course you might still feel that you have to carry out your part, but you don't  _have_ to. Charlotte isn't even here right now." She determinedly avoided mentioning the possibility that she might never be again, as clearly neither of them needed reminding. "Besides, that's what being in a family is about. Hell, it's even what having friends is about. You don't need to do absolutely everything yourself. Max is more than capable, believe me, and I feel quite sure that she's as dedicated to the search as you and Charlotte are. There are a lot of other resources out there working on Alix. I think right now that where you should be, where  _you_ belong, is here with my brother. I could be wrong, but… I don't think I am."

"Aye," Jack said. "Maybe. But Charlotte is still my wife. I have to – for her, even if I want to, I – can't just – "

"Hey," Geneva said, and tugged on his hand until he turned to look at her. "You said that whatever you want with Sam, it's different than what you wanted with her. I don't know the details of your relationships, obviously, and I admire your commitment to keeping your word. But things have changed. We all know that. Just because you did something before, doesn't mean you're doing it now. Wasn't that what we were talking about? How everything that came before doesn't hold true anymore?"

Jack looked flummoxed. "I thought that was about – about sex."

"Strictly speaking, yes," Geneva said. "But it applies to everything else, you know. None of us can go back to who we used to be. I don't think we really want to. I wish Sam could, though." She paused. "Not that he never has to grow up, but that he didn't have to grow up like this."

"Aye," Jack said quietly. "So do I."

Geneva looked up at him, the way the afternoon light turned his eyes rather remarkably gold, and thought that she could finally understand what Sam saw in him, apart from the physical charms. (She certainly did not have a crush on her brother's gentleman friend, but she also would not kick him out of bed for eating crackers.) "I'm glad Sam has you. I'm sorry Grandpa has given you such a hard time. He cares a lot, he just – has unique ways of showing it."

"Well, we've now managed to be in the same room without attempting to kill each other on several occasions." Jack's mouth lifted wryly. "I think we're making progress."

Geneva had to chuckle. "I suppose you are," she admitted. "Think about what I said, all right? Go tell Sam what's holding you back, and he'll understand. That's the great thing about him. He understands almost everything. And he's felt almost his whole life that he's not worthy, he's not enough, he doesn't deserve to have what he wants. If he knows it's about caring for him, about wanting to make it just right for him, and not because you're playing games with him or anything else, it'll help. He's hurting all over the place right now. Be gentle."

Jack looked at her, then nodded. After a long pause, most unexpectedly, he said, "Would it be all right if, in future, I were to call you Geneva?"

"Of – of course." Geneva paused. "Actually, my family sometimes calls me Jenny. You can too, if you want."

Jack looked briefly thunderstruck. "Your family calls you that? Then no, I couldn't – "

"If you want," Geneva repeated firmly, "you can call me Jenny. Are you going to go talk to my brother or not?"

"I…" Jack rubbed his chin, which looked as if he could use a shave (though the effect was quite fetching). "I… yes. I think I will. I… thank you."

"You're welcome." Geneva stood up and turned him toward the house, which he stumbled toward as if still not sure how he had ended up in this position. She watched him go, then supposed that she should tell her parents and grandparents that she had taken care of the situation (they were welcome) and they didn't need to worry about it. As well, there was the lurking awareness that if she had just played the wise mediator for her brother's relationship difficulties, chiefly by instructing them to talk to one another, it would be hypocritical of her to continue dodging the same task. She had told herself that nothing felt like the right time, that there were plenty of other worries to occupy them both, that Jim might even get bored of waiting and go, and all the other litany of excuses, but the fact remained that she was afraid. She couldn't shake the feeling of what it had been like to leave him on Skeleton Island, and how much power it had to hurt her if it wasn't right, or if she lost it somehow, or it wasn't what she had imagined. She understood Jack's current dilemma quite well on that front, of not wanting, not bearing to risk it, and she did not even have any of his very good reasons for approaching the subject cautiously. It was just easier, as ever, to keep up her walls and keep going. For all the trouble she had sometimes had connecting with her mother, she and Emma were alike in fundamental ways. Some admirable, strong, brave, beautiful. In others, less so.  _Where the only ones we hurt are us._

After a long pause, Geneva went inside, informed the family of her efforts, and told them that she would be leaving. Then she put on her hat and cloak again and headed out into the streets, which were beginning to slow somewhat as the day's commerce drew to a close. The light was clear and gold and crystalline, reflecting on the western sea, as she made her way across the main square and to the boarding house on the far side.

She knocked and was admitted by the landlady, albeit with a surprised look that a well-dressed young woman was calling alone outside usual sociable hours, and Geneva could feel her beady eyes following her up the stairs, doubtless wondering if she was from Max's establishment or one of similar houses. She reached the landing and took the second flight up to the attic room, where she had been directed, and stood there for the longest moment, telling herself that Jim might be out for an early supper. Or worse, he might have some other company. She had barely spoken to him in several weeks, and he must have clearly sensed that she was avoiding him, easier able to show her feelings in the terror of Skeleton Island with death inches away at any moment, but less so now. He was a young man, and brave, and kind, and tall, and everything else that had attracted her to him in the first place. If she wasn't inclined to pursue that, he could have felt that it was license to make other arrangements. She didn't think… she didn't  _think…_ but still.

After a long pause, furious with herself, Geneva clenched her fists until her nails left marks in her palm. Then she raised her hand, and knocked.

For a brief moment, there was no sound. Then footsteps creaked across the floorboards, and the door opened a crack. "Aye?"

"I…" Jesus, her throat was dry. "Is this a… is this a bad time?"

"I…" Jim hesitated in turn. "I'm – not exactly – dressed."

Geneva's stomach turned a somersault. She listened hard for any feminine giggling or whispering from inside, or other proof of a second person, but didn't hear it. And then, recalling a story her grandmother had once told her about one of her first visits to her grandfather, she pushed the door open and marched inside.

Jim was alone, all right, which was the first thing she noticed. He was also not wearing a shirt, as he had plainly been in the middle of changing – for what, she didn't know, but the clean one was draped over the chair, and he made a grab for it, as if to spare her the heathen sight of him half-clad. As he turned, Geneva could not help but catch sight of the lean muscles of his shoulders and back, and wondered if she should avert her eyes. However, she did not, as Jim hastily pulled the fresh shirt over his head; given as he had surprised her bathing back in Bristol, perhaps this was merely tit for tat. Then he said, "I was – I was just actually… on my way out. To see if you… might be free this evening."

"I, er." Geneva coughed, waving a hand as if to say that here she was. "I – I am, yes."

"I was going to ask if you… fancied supper, actually." Jim undid the ribbon of his queue and picked up the comb from the sideboard, started to pull it through his hair, wondered if it might be rude to perform  _toilette_ in front of a lady, and stopped. "I know we haven't seen much of each other and you've had a lot to worry about with your brother, and…"

"I… thought you might still be mad," Geneva blurted out. "About – about Daddy, and… that whole mess. And if you were, of course I couldn't blame you, it has to be – "

"I'm… I'm not," Jim said. "Mad, that is. I don't know what I am exactly, but not mad. And that relates to him, besides. It doesn't relate to – doesn't relate to you."

"Oh," Geneva said faintly, feeling as ridiculous as a schoolgirl trying to hand a likely lad a bunch of daisies. "That's good."

There was another pause as they stared at each other, held an impromptu competition to see who could blush the most, and determinedly looked away, clearing their throats at the same moment, which in turn made them try to apologize. Finally, Geneva could not help but burst into a mortified giggle. "Oh, Christ," she said. "We're really punting this, aren't we?"

"Rather," Jim agreed, with as much dignity as possible. "So, er. Miss Jones. Did you possibly want to – to go to supper with me tonight?"

"I, er." Geneva nodded. "Yes, I think that sounds nice."

She considerately turned her back while Jim finished his ministrations, brushing and polishing up and then gallantly offering her his arm, and they made their way down to the front hall together, eyed up even more by the landlady. "You know," Geneva remarked as they exited. "I might be doing all sorts of damage to your reputation with that woman."

"I'll take that risk," Jim said. "The amount of times I've caught her cleaning outside my door, she either thinks I'm the filthiest creature to walk the earth, or she's just waiting to surprise me in some act of scandalous indecency. So long as she's entertained?"

"You could move?" Geneva suggested. "There have to be other lodging houses in the city."

"Aye, there are." Jim shrugged. "But it doesn't matter that much, does it? It's just somewhere to sleep until we – " He stopped. "Well, I suppose until you and your family sort out what's going on, and Mr. Silver and the others make it back, or… not."

Geneva glanced at him. After a moment she said, "Do you miss him? Silver?"

"I… I do, a bit," Jim admitted. "I'm not even sure how. It seems a stretch to call the man a friend, if only I'm not sure that we were ever friends before we somehow progressed to the part where he was willing to die for me. He was – he is tragic, and secretive, and I wouldn't call him trustworthy, but he… aye. I do miss him, or at least I'd rather know that he wasn't dead. When that happens, with the  _Rose,_ do you… were you thinking of taking him back on? As first mate?"

Geneva had to laugh at that. "Christ, no. I'm not sure which of us it would be a bigger unkindness to. He's my parents' age, and has one leg, and has already served and suffered long enough. I'd need a younger man, and one who could be trusted to tell me things without concocting complicated plots to solve them alone. Mr. Silver is loyal in his way, and he certainly cares very much, but… no. As a partner, as a companion, no."

"Ah." Jim seemed to be trying to think how to say something, even as they arrived at the supper club, were admitted at once since anyone who knew what was good for them had learned to recognize Captain Flint's granddaughter on sight, and took a table in the back. Once they had been brought their drinks, Jim asked, "Were you – well. In the market for a new one, then?"

"What?" Geneva blinked at him, until it occurred to her, and she felt quite dense for failing to cotton on earlier. "Wh – oh. Were you wondering if… I'd thought about you?"

"Well, I might have been," Jim said, with a poor attempt at nonchalance. "I mean, we did work well together, and I've no intention of going back to Bristol, once I arrange to send some money to my mother. I didn't… want to presume, though. Or think that I'd be expecting anything else than a job, and hopefully a decent wage. If you – "

Geneva leaned across the table and kissed him.

Jim made an utterly startled noise, as even in the back of a dimly lit supper club, this was highly scandalous conduct to obtain with a gentleman in public. At least in the rest of the civilized world, but despite the new coat of paint and the legitimate business and the Union Jack flying over the fort, Nassau was still Nassau, and this was far from the most eyebrow-raising thing anyone had done in one of its dark corners. Jim hesitated a fraction of a moment before kissing her back, their heads turning, hands tangling in the other's hair. They were only startled apart by the loud announcement of the serving man that he had brought their supper, and leaned back into their own chairs, breathing hard and trying to control their faces. Geneva's entire body felt hot, her knees weak, and her stomach had turned over, so much that she almost couldn't be arsed to think about the food when she wanted to look at him, or better yet, continue that somewhere more private. "I, ah. I think we could likely find a spot for you on the  _Rose,_ yes."

Jim looked at her, then grinned, and it was all Geneva could do not to leap over the table and seize hold of him right there. For the life of her, she could not think why it had taken her so long to do this, and after that kiss, she was fairly sure of the answer to her next question, but she had to ask it anyway. "Unless there was somewhere – someone else you might want to…?"

"No," Jim said. "On both fronts. As you point out, I'm not staying in that boarding house with a bloody snoop of a landlady for the fun of it, or because I was thinking I was best off to somewhere else. I'll wait. Unless you'd rather I didn't?"

"No," Geneva said in turn. "No, I want – I want you to stay. With me."

They stared at each other again, as she could feel her heart fluttering in her fingers, in her throat, in every inch of her. She had quite forgotten what they were eating, and she attempted a distracted bite that only barely made it into her mouth. Nor she was entirely sure what they talked about for the rest of supper. Jim settled the bill, and then escorted her out into the clear, starry December night. "May I walk you home, Geneva?"

"You could," Geneva said. "Or perhaps you could walk me back to yours?"

Jim looked shocked, then laughed rather breathlessly. "In front of Mistress Francis Walsingham?"

"I'm sure there's a back staircase." Geneva moved closer. "If you felt like looking."

Jim shook his head, but couldn't keep back a dazzling grin. He linked his arm through hers, and they managed a sedate pace through the streets, so not to look  _completely_ uncultured, until they made it to the boarding house, snuck around to the courtyard in the rear, and eyed the kitchen door. Jim said, "What if she has a pistol and thinks we're breaking in?"

"Oh, let me pick the lock." Geneva directed him aside and bent to her work, which she sprung open in a tidy matter of moments, and they tiptoed in, shut the door, and closed it again behind them. Then, after a glance revealed no landladies lurking in the shadows, they made their way up the rear staircase, wincing when it creaked loudly under one of Jim's steps; Geneva, following, made sure to avoid that board. They achieved the upper floor, then Jim's attic room, which they hurried into, giggling like mischievous children who had successfully evaded a scolding from the nanny. Jim went to light the battered candelabra on the sideboard, as Geneva watched. Just as he was about to double-check if he had made the bed (or thrown his dirty clothes beneath it) she reached out, linked her arms around his neck, turned him around, and kissed him soundly.

This time, Jim managed to be not quite so surprised as before, and his own arms wrapped solidly around her waist, his hands caressing the line of her spine and up to the curve of her head. Geneva's hands fisted in his shirt as she rose on her tiptoes, pulling him to a suitable level, both of them uttering soft murmurs and moans and gulps. They were vastly out of breath, Jim's hair pulled loose from its queue and Geneva's altogether out of its pins, by the time they let go. They stared at each other, candlelight dancing in their eyes, until Jim said, "What exactly would you – would you like me to do?"

"Well," Geneva said, having had plenty of time to think about this question. "You can start by getting that shirt off again. After that, do you happen to know how to unlace a lady's corset?"

"I've never actually done it," Jim said. "But I'm good with knots, how hard can it be?"

"I suppose we'll find out, won't we?" Geneva crooked a finger. "C'mere."

After a final pause, evidently in which Jim seemed to be trying to find a way to pinch himself without her noticing, he did as ordered. He shucked his shirt off and tossed it on the chair, then bent to her, undoing the hooks of her dress with only a few fumbles and muttered curses about the unfathomable complication of female fashion. Geneva heartily agreed with this in the ordinary course of things, but she was thoroughly enjoying watching him undertake a battle of wills with her bodice, which he finally got unclasped and then pulled off fast enough to hear something tear. Then he untied her skirts, leaving her in her underthings, the draft from the window raising a brief chill on her skin. Rather shyly, despite herself, she turned. "Well?"

It was clearly asking too much for Jim Hawkins to form coherent words at this point, which really did not bode well for his eloquence down the line, but Geneva, after all, had not come here with him to talk. After a pause, he kicked his shoes and stockings off as she did the same, then padded over to her in bare feet, only clad in his breeches. Very slowly, he raised the back of his hand to brush over her shoulder, the side of her face, her cheek and neck. Then he opened both palms to run them along her arms, intent and careful and wondering. "Jesus," he said at last, in a croak. "You're so beautiful."

In answer, Geneva tipped her face back, and Jim kissed her again, with a quick, possessive swoop that she found incredibly delightful. She hooked her leg up alongside his hip, and he gripped hold of her thigh with those strong sailor hands of his, pulling her close, as he nibbled lightly on her lower lip, then made his way down the underside of her jaw and the column of her throat. He hesitated briefly at her cleavage, until Geneva gave him an expectant, eyebrow-cocked look, then buried his face between her breasts, his other hand coming up to press into her lower back, lifting her toward him, as his hair fell onto her in shining chestnut tangles. She felt branded, dizzied, dreaming, hands on the back of his head, entirely relying on him to bear her weight and hold her up. If he didn't, if he let go, if he dropped her –

He didn't. After as thorough an explanation as he could make within the confines of her corset, he let go, turned her around, and after a questioning look at her had gotten only a breathless, "Well, what are you  _waiting_ for?", ventured forth to the laces. Several minutes of valiant struggle finally succeeded in loosening them most of the way, though the project of actually freeing her took longer. "Christ," Jim grumbled. "You have to wear one of these every day? That's ridiculous. I think I'd rather go naked."

"Of course it's ridiculous, it comes with being a woman." Geneva turned and put her arms around his neck, deciding that however much she would love to explain to Jim the rationale of the societal oppression of women's wardrobes (however much she enjoyed her fashion, she was well aware of why it existed), she wanted him to keep his promise more. She nudged his chin with the top of her head. "You were saying something about being naked?"

She felt him buzz with laughter, and despite himself, a certain hesitance. Much as he wanted her, this  _was_ his first time with a woman, and one who he had thought was so far above him as to be some sort of goddess. "You're – you're sure?"

"Aye." Geneva ran her fingers down the strong line of his back. "If you are."

Jim considered her for a final moment, then nodded. He stepped back, undid his breeches, and slid them down his legs, standing up in nothing but his skin. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, holding out his arms and allowing her to look. After a long, spellbound moment, he said, "Not terribly hideous, am I?"

Geneva sauntered closer, enjoying the shiver that she could see travel down his entire body, and walked her fingers slowly along his chest. Then she kissed his collarbone, with a slight nip of teeth. "I'm in no danger of going blind," she said, sliding her hand down his side and brushing her thumb into the hollow of his hip. She hitched herself up against him, the thin cloth of her shift the only thing separating them, and even more enjoyed the sound and sensation which resulted. His eyes were half-closed, looking like a man bracing himself to leap off a cliff, and she grinned. "Come on, now. You got through the corset, the rest should be small potatoes."

Jim paused, then set about removing her shift and drawers, which Geneva stepped out of as they puddled on the floor. It was her turn to feel a brief touch of nerves. She had done this before with men she liked, even with some she really liked, but never anyone that she felt about as she did Jim, and she felt a sudden fear that if it was not altogether satisfactory, he might pronounce himself disappointed and leave. Not that she really thought he had stayed with her this far and this long, through so much danger and disaster, out of an expectation of being entitled to sex at the end, but still. She wanted this, she  _wanted_ him, she wanted it to work, and this was the first time they had tried. Like most competent people. Geneva was unnerved by the prospect of having to learn a new skill and not immediately being good at it, and while this was not a new skill per se, it was different. She stood there, heart pounding, waiting to hear the verdict.

After a pause, Jim took hold of her upper arms, pulled her gently close to him, and let go with one hand so he could smooth her hair out of her face, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers. "Hey," he whispered. "Are you all right?"

"I feel like I'm supposed to be asking you that." Geneva managed a shaky laugh. "I – I just – I do, I want it, and I… I don't think I've ever had it like this. I just – I want it to be perfect."

"Well," Jim said. "You think about it, sex is fairly bloody stupid. And, for that matter, a bit ridiculous. And if you can't laugh about it, and if you can't be allowed to get better with practice – " He caught himself. "Not of course that I would think we were necessarily expected to have anything more than the once, but if – "

Once more, Geneva cut him off by kissing him, as his arms wrapped around her tightly, hers went around his neck, and he lifted her up and carried her to the bed. They tumbled onto it together, and Jim draped Geneva's legs over his shoulders, sliding down between them and kissing her belly first, then – with a glance up at her, and a quivering little nod giving him permission – lightly and cautiously lower.

Geneva made a rather inarticulate sound, as Jim – despite not having done this before – seemed more than willing to experiment. "There," she said, grabbing hold of his head and moving him. "Up and a little to the lef –  _oh_ fuck."

Jim's eyes crinkled as he grinned at her, with rather more deviousness than one might expect from such a straightforward and sensible young man. He leaned down and nipped, toying with his tongue. "Mm?" he said, voice muffled. "This bit right there, then?"

"Yes," Geneva said, somewhat faintly, her fingers looking for a useful handful of the sheet to clutch. "Yes, that bit right there, good job."

Having determined that he was in the right place, Jim went more properly to work, until Geneva was entirely breathless, flushed, and gulping, and no longer able to give him actual instructions that did not turn into whimpers halfway through. For his part, Jim seemed to have decided that now that he was past absolute beginner level, he was happy to innovate, and he finally sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth as if to hide something that was definitely a smirk. "Well," he said. "Might not have been perfect, but from the looks of things, certainly not a bad start."

"No," Geneva said, still flat on her back and trying to get up the wherewithal to move. "No, I'd say it wasn't, no."

"Good," Jim said, with considerable self-satisfaction. "Need a breather, Captain, or – "

"Oh, no you don't." Geneva sat up, grabbed him around the neck, and pulled him back down on top of her, as they kissed, pulled at each other, and giggled. There was not much room to roll about on the bed, and if they made it thump too much, the landlady was likely to come up on some flimsy investigatory premise or other. Geneva's giggles were muffled and turned into murmurs and sighs as they kept kissing, and then, slowly, she shifted her thighs apart and let him slide between them. He brushed lightly against her, they both sucked in a breath, and she looked at him in question this time. "Do you… want to?"

"I… expect men have wanted things more in their life." Jim's voice sounded as he was lost in a dream, transfixed and transcending. "But not many."

Geneva's heart skipped a beat. Leave it to him to say something so stupidly bloody sweet and poetic, even at the moment when other men's conversation mostly consisted of grunts or oaths or other such things. She reached down, got hold of him, and guided him where he needed to go; she was so wet that he glided into her almost without a catch. It did take them a few wriggles to get him seated properly, and she gave an experimental, arching thrust, drawing her knees up to either side of his hips and grinding on him. "Oh," she said.  _"Oh,_ good."

Jim did not manage a coherent answer this time, just something that sounded half like a prayer, as one of his hands caught at her thigh, pulling her into him at a better angle, as his other hand caught at hers and pushed it over her head, into the pillow. Then it was his turn to try a thrust, lightly at first and then, as she pawed at him in a burning frenzy of need, harder. "Come on," she said. "Come  _on,_ you're not going to break me."

Jim Hawkins, gentleman and loyal first mate to the last, took his captain at her word, rolling his hips into a thrust that made her stutter a gasp, then bite down on her lip to avoid a squeak. She gripped the back of his neck with her free hand, as the bed thumped despite their best efforts and she hoped hazily that they had remembered to bar the door. Even if the landlady was presently being vindicated in all her worst suspicions of her lodger's moral character, Geneva Jones still did not give a single, solitary damn. "Oh Jesus," she said. "Oh,  _Jesus."_

They rolled over at some point, she ended up on top, rode him deliberately and insolently and thoroughly, then let him take back control. She could feel herself being pushed over the edge with both delicious and maddening slowness, in fits and starts and pieces, until all at once the world went decidedly porous and bright and white about the edges, her toes clenched, and a sensation of immense satisfaction spread through her like warm honey, engulfing her from head to toe. Jim was already sprawled heavily on top of her, wearing the expression of mild concussion familiar to all men immediately post-coitus, and it was Geneva's turn to smirk. "Hmm," she said, poking him in the shoulder. "You all right there?"

Jim blinked at her with those beautiful long-lashed grey eyes of his, as if she should try again in another few moments when the capability for intelligible human speech returned. Then he finally groaned, slid out of her, and collapsed on his back among the tousled quilts, sweat glinting on the clean angles of his chest and collarbone. Finally he said,  _"Fuck."_

"That's what they call it." Geneva nestled her nose into his arm, grinning. She couldn't remember the last time, if ever, she had enjoyed herself so much in bed with someone – not just the actions themselves, but talking and teasing and touching, all the small things that made it feel familiar and right and good, and not merely some perfunctory, anonymous clinch. It hadn't been perfect, but that hadn't mattered, as the figuring out the bits had been nearly as much fun as the bits themselves, as if all the knowledge yet to be gained was part of the charm. And it was not as if she had gone wanting this time; she felt warm and satiated and wanted, worshiped from head to toe, until she thought that sexual naïveté in men might be a highly underrated quality.  _At least in one man._ She reached out for his hand, and their fingers linked.

Geneva was hazily aware that Madi might be concerned if it was very late and she had not gotten back yet, but then, Madi knew that Geneva could take care of herself, and did not feel that it was her job to nursemaid her. Besides, as noted, it was only an idiot with an instant death wish who would give Captain Flint's granddaughter any sort of trouble, and Geneva did not feel like going anywhere else tonight. She snuggled closer to Jim, and they rearranged themselves long enough to pull the covers out and crawl beneath them, as it was quite cool in the attic once the heat of exertion had passed. Geneva settled into the cradle of his arms, and almost at once, fell asleep.

She slept quite soundly, and awoke in the early grey hours, was briefly very confused, and then pleased. Much as she wanted to remain exactly where she was, she had a rather urgent need to use the chamber pot, and she slid out of bed, still naked, to do so. Once that was attended to, she noticed that the room had a window in the garret that would look out over the harbor, and she paused, telling herself that it was stupid. Three weeks of that pointless vigil had done nothing, after all, and that was not likely to change now.

And yet, because it was a habit, because she had to look despite herself, she took the chair from the desk, and put it on the floor beneath the garret, then climbed up onto it. The lime glass was old and streaky, and the sun was barely up, the world still and cool and silent. Her breath fogged the pane as she looked down into the harbor, into the –

She blinked, then looked twice, suddenly convinced that she was seeing things – the light was bad, they were at a distance, and all the other reasons not to be entirely certain. But she had spent a lot of bloody time recently looking at that very ship at a distance and in less than optimum conditions, and thus felt considerably confident that she was not, in fact, mistaken. She didn't know if it was good news or not, or who, if anyone, last seen on Skeleton Island was aboard it – if it was Gideon Murray, she had after all promised to kill him, and still might, if he had returned and done something else dishonorable – but aye. Glancing again, she was sure of it.

The  _Hispaniola._


	32. XXXII

The winter light was grey and cold and quiet when Emma stirred, drawn unaccountably from some unremarkable dream into the waking world. She was very comfortable, buried in a pile of quilts and featherbeds – not to mention the presence of a warm and amorous husband, whose arm had fallen over her waist as he curled close to her – and the last time she had woken unexpectedly in the wee hours on Nassau, it had been compelled by the need to make sure he was still with her. It was something like that this time, but different. This time, rationally or not, she had to go look in on Sam. She needed to know if he was all right.

Emma was briefly reluctant to relinquish such a cozy spot, but after a moment, she gently pushed Killian's arm off and rolled out of bed as carefully as she could, in order not to wake him. She pulled on the dressing gown from the chair, wrapping it around herself, and twisted her hair into a loose knot, then padded across the cold floorboards to the door. The hallway was just as quiet, the rest of the house not yet awake, and she made her way down to Sam's room. She knocked and then, when there was no answer, eased the latch open.

Inside, her son was fast asleep, barely visible beneath his own nest of quilts, but he wasn't alone. In fact, instead of the pillow, his head was resting on Jack Bellamy's lap. By the looks of things, Jack had fallen asleep sitting up, leaning against the headboard, and if he had woken sometime in the night to discover it, had decided to remain there rather than take a more comfortable position in the bed. Emma hadn't meant to disturb them, and indeed was quite surprised and gratified to see that Jack was still there, as she had assumed that he had simply gone home late. Seeing him here instead, sitting with Sam faithfully through the night, made her heart clench. It was something his uncle would have done, caring for any of them who needed it, but the fact that it was Jack, and that it had been given specifically to one of them, was almost inexpressibly tender.

Emma was about to retreat, having soothed her motherly sensibilities that Sam was fine, but something stopped her. She stepped inside, went over to the bed, and shook Jack lightly. "Hey," she whispered. "Jack. Wake up."

After a moment, he roused, confused and stiff and blinking. He caught sight of her, was momentarily baffled, and then looked set to bolt, as if he had been surprised doing something wrong. She kept her hand on his shoulder, stopping him, as he fought down that instinct and struggled to master himself for a correct greeting instead. "Good morning, Mrs. Jones."

"I think we're well past that, don't you? You can call me Emma." She kept her voice low, so not to disturb Sam, but he could usually sleep through most things, and as tired as he was just now, he might cheerfully slumber right through the Second Coming without so much as turning a hair. "I'm sorry to bother you, I just wanted to – to look in on him."

"Aye." Jack glanced down at Sam, whose face was still pressed into his thigh, then lifted him off and put his head on the pillow instead. His hand lingered briefly, tidying Sam's tangled hair out of his eyes, and then tucked it behind his ear. "He's – I don't know. Better, maybe. A bit. He wrote in that journal his sister gave him for a while, and we talked some, and he asked if I'd stay, so I – I did. If I should have asked your leave – it was late, I didn't want to barge in on – "

"No," Emma said. "No, no, it's not that, I'm not angry. Not at all, in fact. I'm glad you were with him. You've been very patient and kind with him, these last weeks. It's helped a great deal."

Jack coughed, then looked down, still unable for the life of him to accept a compliment or quite trust anything that was not outright scorn. But a shy, fugitive smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, his eyes remaining on Sam, until he finally said, "I could have done more."

"Not that I can think of." Emma held back a moment more, then sat on the edge of the bed next to him. "And I know that feeling. I know the urge to keep giving and giving to everyone else, rather than pay any heed to yourself, and your own pain. I think – I hope – Sam will be just fine. He's young, and he's strong, and he's had the whole family worrying over him. Likely more than he actually wants us to. But what about you? Are you all right?"

Jack looked as if she had asked if he wanted to take a walk on the moon. "What?"

"Are you all right?" Emma repeated. "This has been just as hard for you. Everything that's gone on for the last few months, the ordeal on Skeleton Island, the  _loa_ ceremony with Merlin, and now this… Sam has had plenty of people there for him, but you haven't. You've had to look after Cecilia as well as him, and I was just wondering… how you were holding up."

"I…" Jack still seemed confused by the question. "I'm doing what I have to."

"That's what I did," Emma said gently. "What I have done, even now. But there's more to life than that, and… you don't have to answer, if you don't want to. I know it doesn't even seem hard to you anymore, it's just the way you've always lived, so why would it matter? I don't know if you remember, but… while he was… while he was here, your uncle told us to tell you this. That no matter what, no matter anything, he would have rescued you from Howe and that situation, if he had known about it, if he had lived. I'm sorry for everything we lost with him, all of us. But I'm even more sorry for what you lost. Sam would have raised you as his own son, and you would have grown up with us. We would have been your family from the start, not having to find each other in this belated, broken, years-too-late way. That is something that nothing,  _nothing_ can give back or make right, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Jack looked even more startled. But then he reached out and clumsily put his hand on hers, patting as if to comfort her. "That's not your fault."

"It is, though," Emma said. "I knew Sam had sisters. He told me about them, during the months we spent on the  _Whydah_ together after he rescued me. I knew he had left a family behind in Devonshire, a poor farm that he meant to free from the grip of cruel and extortionate landlords, the fortune he meant to make at sea. Killian and I tried to find Mariah, the woman he had loved on Cape Cod, but we… we didn't go back to England, we didn't look for his sisters, we didn't write to Liam and Regina in France and ask if they could do it for us. If we had done that, we might have known about you sooner, or been able to find you in London. Even if Sam died, we should have stepped in for him and taken his place. We didn't, and… Jack, I… I'm so sorry. You were – you are – right to be angry with us, for being so blinded by that loss and haunted by that ghost that we could never face up to looking for what was left behind. Even if it hurt us, even if Killian was known far and wide as Captain Hook – we could have found a way, and we didn't. It's not just Charlotte who betrayed you and broke your trust. It's all of us."

Jack was very still, unreadable in the dimness, a long lock of hair falling over his face to obscure his expression even further. His fingers tapped on his leg, and once and then again, he seemed about to say something, but he didn't. The pain was too immense for a trite absolution, and Emma did not feel that they deserved one just yet. He could not merely say that he forgave them, as she knew that in his position, she wouldn't. Might understand, might even sympathize, might know that their motives had come from a place of love, and so had their failings – but when this boy should have been her foster son, when they should have known each other from the start, whether by Sam Bellamy's volition or by their own, the lost time, the lost chance, the lost children, it was too much to simply accept at once. "I see," he said, voice carefully expressionless. "I see."

"Aye." Emma looked down at her hands, still knotted in her lap, and then over at her sleeping son. The dawn light was starting to climb up the walls, turning his face from the cold, carved marble of a tombstone effigy to the pink glow of living flesh, and she reached out to cup his cheek. He sighed in his sleep, but didn't wake up, and she blinked fiercely, doing her best to wick away a renewed sting of tears. "So, as we've said. You have nothing to apologize for."

Jack considered that, brief flickers of thoughts just visible behind his eyes, even as the rest of his face remained inscrutable. Perhaps it was tempting to punish them, to lash out and inflict pain in turn, from a tremendously old young soul who had borne more than his share for a lifetime. Emma tried to ready herself for anything he might say, anything he might justly accuse them of, and to bear it humbly and contritely, but he didn't. He looked at Sam with her, ghosted his knuckles over Sam's cheek as well, then pulled his hand back. At last he said, "All right."

"If you want – if you do want…" Emma struggled over the words. "If there's anything we can possibly – "

"Maybe I'll think of something," Jack said. "Maybe later. But just now, I… I don't care that much. Not about me. As you said, it's not hard, it's just how it's always been. But it hasn't been that way for Sam. I just want him to get better. I just want him to be happy again."

At that, Emma was totally at a loss for several moments, and had to steady herself even to nod. "So do we," she whispered. "So do we."

Jack looked up at her with a faint, catching smile. "Well then. We're in agreement."

"I suppose we are." Emma touched Sam's cheek one more time, then got up off the bed. "Call me when he wakes. If he – if both of you are hungry."

Jack nodded, still making no move from where he was sitting, and she looked at them for a long moment, unable to come close to expressing everything she felt just then: joy and pride and love and terrible, terrible grief. They nodded to each other once more, and then Emma let herself out, shutting the door behind her and briefly feeling as if she might slide down it. But she didn't. She was just about to go back to bed herself, to lie next to Killian and be held for a bit, when there was a knock on the front door from downstairs.

Emma frowned. It, to say the least, was too early for callers, and anyone arriving at this time was not liable to be bringing good news – or at least, the sort of news that could wait for breakfast and sunup and a more sociable hour. She wrapped the dressing gown tighter and hurried down, trying not to jump too quickly to conclusions. The housekeeper would probably apologize profusely later for putting Emma to the bother of answering her own door, but since they had lived without help all this time, it was not so terribly different from –

Emma undid the bolt and opened it a crack. "Hello?"

"Mother?" It was, most unexpectedly, Geneva. "Mother, are you – can you come with us? It's important. We – we saw the  _Hispaniola_ in the harbor. Gideon Murray's ship. We think some of them might be on it."

"What?" Emma opened the door the rest of the way, thus to behold her daughter and Jim Hawkins standing on the stoop. Both looked as if they had woken and dressed hastily, but they had a certain flush and tousle that made it plain they had not just happened to coincidentally run into each other on the street. "The  _Hispaniola?_ Not the  _Griffin?"_

"No," Geneva said, breath making slight puffs in the cold silver air. The preceding winter had been one of the worst ever on record in England, and the chill seemed to have persisted even as far south as the Caribbean, as if threatening that they might be in for a repeat. "We're sure of it, we know that bloody ship quite well. I – I woke Jim after I saw it, and he knew it at once."

Emma couldn't help raising an eyebrow, if nothing else than at that offhand confirmation that the two of them had spent the night together, but this was not the moment for either parental enquiries or admonishments. If Gideon's ship  _was_ here, and the  _Griffin_ was not, it could mean anything from that the Spanish-fighting crew had gotten off Skeleton Island safely, albeit at the cost of Matthew's vessel, to that the  _Hispaniola's_ remaining redcoats had given the lot of them up for dead and cut their losses. Or Gideon could have escaped from the  _Griffin_ and left the others, since he, after all, had been in the process of being arrested for high treason. Or – or –

"Hold on," Emma said. "I'll be right there."

She did not want to take the time to get fully into her clothes, so she threw on a pair of boots, one of Flint's jackets over her dressing gown, and grabbed a pistol just in case, though one certainly hoped this would not come to shots fired at dawn. Then she stepped outside, fully aware that this was a serious moment, but still noticing that Geneva and Jim took hands as they set out again. "You two – are enjoying each other's company again? It's been a few weeks, hasn't it?"

"Yes," Jim said, suddenly discovering a need to cough. "Geneva and I, er, we decided we should… start talking again."

"I see," Emma said. "I'm glad to hear you've been talking."

It was Geneva's turn to blush at that, and she kept her eyes determinedly forward as they hurried through the mostly empty streets. That was surprising to Emma, as Geneva was not usually one to be shy on the subject, but she supposed that Jim was quite different from any of the paramours her daughter had had before. (It might also be a good idea to keep this away from Flint and Killian for the moment, just because they were certain to give Jim all sorts of suspicious looks if they knew – or rather, Flint would, as Killian had been well aware that he had no leeway to offer any opinion on Geneva and Jim's budding romance.) Besides, Emma supposed sadly, the family had hurt both Jack and Jim in some deep and irreparable way, taking from them the life and parents that they should have had, and the least they could do was allow them to love their children in return. Perhaps that was how – if ever – this could be mended in the slightest degree.

They reached the docks in another few minutes, just in time to see the  _Hispaniola_ gliding through the mist, eerie as the legends of the  _Flying Dutchman._ It reached the quay and moored up, and Emma, Geneva, and Jim stared tensely at the deck as a gangplank was levered overboard and landed with a thump on the boards. Then a few figures made their slow, straggling way down, looking as if they could do with nothing so much as falling into a proper bed and sleeping for a fortnight. They were clearly not expecting to have any welcome party, and therefore started considerably when Geneva was the first to speak, her voice cracking the stillness. "Uncle Liam?"

Liam Jones, more battered and grizzled and grey than ever, looked up, saw them, and blinked. He was at the head of the party, followed by Charlotte, whose arm was bound in a makeshift sling, and Matthew, whose face was tied in a handkerchief spotted with dried bloodstains. His cravat was gone and his jacket torn to shreds, and he quietly offered a hand to Charlotte as they reached the bottom of the plank. Emma, Geneva, and Jim ran toward them, as Geneva was the first to articulate the obvious question. "Silver – MacSweeney, the Irish – Gideon?"

Liam took a deep breath, rubbing his hands across his face. "Gideon's still aboard," he said, nodding back at the ship. "Didn't feel it wise to appear in person, if word has gotten out of his Jacobite activities. MacSweeney's dead. Fought bravely to the last, took down at least a dozen Spaniards, they had to shoot him five or six times. O'Shea and one of the other ones, Fitzgerald, they're dead too. The others and the survivors of the  _Griffin_ are also aboard."

"Silver?" Geneva repeated. "Where's Mr. Silver?"

"He…" Liam looked at her gently. "He stayed behind to the last. It's a long story, but – the essence of it all was his suggestion. He said that if Skeleton Island had ghosts, that if the Spanish were afraid of them, then we should conjure them. We malingered, lured the man-of-war back into the eye of the skull. It wasn't much pretending, anyway. We were taking on water fast, we barely made it. Then we managed to launch the ship's boats, and the rest swam for it. Silver went to the  _Walrus._ Waited until the Spanish ship had committed itself for a final attack, then lit the hulk alight. It must indeed have looked as if the vengeful ghosts had woken to take their revenge. The man-of-war hit the  _Griffin,_ then they both hit the burning  _Walrus._  It was a… terrible spectacle. I suppose it's conceivable that Silver could have survived, taken refuge further inland, but he… he wasn't with us when we finally made it to the  _Hispaniola._ We waited a day and night, but he did not appear. After that, we decided that we… that we had to leave."

Geneva went pale, her grip tightening on Jim's hand. After a long pause, she said, "So if he's alive, he faces the same sort of exile and penance as Grandpa? A year alone on Skeleton Island, or more? He – what, he planned it that way, to fully repay the debt? He didn't need to. He saved all of you, he could – he could have called it even. He could have come back."

"He could have," Liam agreed wearily. "But he didn't. He made absolutely sure that we got away, and that the Spanish were destroyed. Perhaps he felt that only Long John Silver could take on the weight of such an act, to be responsible for all those deaths. Likewise, some of the Spanish sailors may have escaped, who knows. But the last we saw, the man-of-war, the  _Griffin,_ and the  _Walrus_ were all burning. It's still true. No ship that goes there ever returns."

"Except this one." Jim glanced at the  _Hispaniola._ "This one and the  _Rose."_

"We were very fortunate," Liam said. "How – how is my nephew? Sam?"

"He's alive," Emma said, and saw Liam's shoulders sag with a breath of relief. "His body is on the mend. It hasn't been as easy to heal his mind, though, or any of ours. That place has taken so much from all of us. It hasn't stopped."

"Aye," Liam said. "It has, at that. But there is this."

With that, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a rough burlap sack, and handed it to Emma, whose jaw dropped as she felt the heavy weight of gold and silver, the clink of coins and the sharp edges of jewels. "Is this – but we didn't find the stash, we – "

"Well," Liam said. "The Irishmen did. Jack Bellamy told them, apparently. So they cleaned the chest out and took it with them, and we retrieved it before we abandoned the  _Griffin._ I kept some back for them, but that's the rest, and there's plenty of it. It's Flint's treasure, isn't it? It belongs to your family."

"Our family," Emma said, still rather faint from the small fortune in her hands. "We'll divide it equally. The rest of you – " She looked at Matthew and Charlotte. "Are you all right?"

"Alive, madam." Matthew's voice sounded rusty. "Before we… parted, Mr. Silver said there was something I should know about my mother, but in the heat of battle, he was not allowed the opportunity to tell me. I was to ask either Miss Jones or Mr. Hawkins, if I saw them, or Captain Flint." He looked at Geneva and Jim. "Frankly, I would far prefer to ask you anyway."

Geneva and Jim exchanged a look. Then Geneva said, "Up at the house, I think. It's not really a conversation for the docks. Are you staying on the ship?"

"No." Matthew grimaced. "Indeed, I agreed that in exchange for the service Lord Murray has done us, helping us escape from the island and sailing us to Nassau aboard his vessel, I will conveniently overlook his departure as soon as the  _Hispaniola_ is resupplied, and neglect to file any formal concerns with my superiors as regards his Jacobite activities. I suppose it was the fair thing to do, if not the right one. But if he makes any further trouble in Charlestown, I do still intend to make those concerns public. It is, therefore, entirely up to him."

"Aye, well. The lot of you look as if you could use a square meal and some sleep." Emma recollected herself, remembered that no matter how early and quiet it might be, it was not a good idea to be holding so much money in the open, and stashed it in Flint's jacket. "And we should send someone over to Charlie's right away, to get Regina and Cecilia. They've missed you."

"I'll go," Geneva said. "Meet you back at the house."

Emma kissed her daughter on the cheek and then took charge of the bedraggled war party, as she and Jim shepherded them back up to the rented Nolan residence. She suspected that Geneva had volunteered to fetch the others both out of kindness and to have a moment alone to gather her thoughts about Silver. Their relationship had obviously been complicated, as it hardly could have been otherwise, but just like her grandfather, Geneva had very grudgingly come to rely on him a great deal, and then was not quite sure what to do with herself when he was gone. At least Silver had not betrayed her – indeed had died, or close enough, still trying to pay back the first one – and that must make it even more complex, both relief and grief and simple, impossible absence. It, Emma supposed poignantly, was really only the only way it could have ended.

They reached the house and went inside, down the hall to the solarium, where Flint, Miranda, Thomas, Killian, and David were just in the middle of some sort of argument about where Emma had gone. Emma herself cleared her throat from the doorway, everyone looked around, saw who was with her, and stared. Then Killian knocked his chair over rushing to hug Liam, shake him, hug him again, and cuff him on the shoulder, Miranda got up at once to clasp Charlotte's hand in delight, and Matthew hung back, clearly cognizant of his intrusion. Flint stared at him evilly, but for once, did not have anything to offer, at least aloud. His eyes flicked to the door, then back. Finally, when it was clear that no one else was coming, he said, "Where's Silver?"

"He…" Matthew hesitated. "He stayed behind to ensure that the rest of us escaped."

It was hard to say what, exactly, crossed Flint's face at that. It certainly was not joy, or triumph, or any sort of vindication that the debt had at last been paid. It was clear that he believed it, as he refrained from asking snidely if Matthew had had anything to do with it, or indeed making any remarks at all. Instead, he looked away for a long moment, and Thomas put a hand on his. "I'm sorry, James," he said quietly. "You know I am."

Flint didn't answer, gaze still fixed on the wall, as Miranda graciously got up and went to ask the housekeeper for more chairs and another portion of breakfast. Once this had been supplied, and Liam, Charlotte, and Matthew had begun to eat as ravenously as good manners permitted – it was clear that they had not had a proper meal in weeks – they managed to get some conversation going. Liam and Matthew gave them a detailed recapitulation of the various tactics they had used in the middle of the storm and the Spanish bombardment to level the odds in the battle between the  _Griffin_ and the man-of-war, and by the proud way that Liam looked at the younger captain, Emma thought that it must have been what he had always wanted. Teaching someone else, passing on his knowledge, mentoring and fathering, without the terrible knowledge that he alone was responsible for keeping them alive and whole in bondage and servitude. He had had it for such a short time with Henry, and now this. She was glad for it.

Charlotte had just taken over the conversation, explaining how they had had to cross Skeleton Island on foot after the loss of the  _Griffin,_ when there was a sound at the door, and everyone turned to see Jack and Sam, who (understandably) both looked gobsmacked. Jack stared at Charlotte, Sam stared at Liam, and the crowded breakfast table fell silent in the blink of an eye. Finally Miranda, in an obvious attempt to break the tension, cleared her throat. "My dears, would you care to join us? We've a few extra guests, as you can see."

"I…" Jack blinked hard several times, as if checking if Charlotte would still be there when he opened them. "Are you – Charlotte, I – I'm sorry for what I… about Howe, I…"

Charlotte had gone quite pale, but she bravely got to her feet and met his gaze. "I'm sorry too," she said, barely above a whisper. "I should never have lied to you. I just – I was afraid, and I… well, I tried to… but if I haven't paid for it, you can…"

Jack considered her for a moment longer, then crossed the room in half a stride and pulled her into his arms, lifting her clean off her feet. Charlotte wrapped both arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder, neither of them saying a word, until they finally let go, both quite bright-eyed. Then Charlotte sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her hand, and glanced over with a wry smile. "You must be Sam."

"Er," Sam said, looking as if he had absolutely no idea what the protocol for this might be (for which, really, he could not be blamed). "You must be Charlotte."

Both of them coughed, shuffled feet, and shook hands with rather adorable formality, observed by Jack, who looked as if he might be biting down on a smile. Then he glanced at the other occupant of the table who was clearly to his interest. "Captain Rogers."

"Mr. Bellamy." Matthew curtly inclined his head half an inch. "Good morning."

"Did you bring them back?" Jack asked. "Did you bring her back?"

Matthew paused, then pushed his chair back and got to his feet, moving to face Jack as everyone tensed, as if in instinctive preparation for a fight. There was a very delicate moment as the two young men stared each other down. Then Matthew said, "I helped, I suppose. I cannot take sole credit. Captain Jones and Mrs. Bell herself and even Lord Murray, as well as Mr. Silver, all played their part. I don't suppose you will be terribly grieved to hear that the  _Griffin –_ that the  _Griffin_ is gone. We made it back here on the  _Hispaniola._ But yes, I brought her back."

Jack considered, then nodded at Matthew's bandaged face. "You injured?"

"I was sliced by a broken spar," Matthew said. "It may leave a mark. My – my father had a similar scar on his cheek. I will live if I have the same."

"Ah." Jack took this in, then all at once, quick as a viper, punched Matthew in the uninjured half of his face, sending him reeling to his knees with a startled exclamation. Everyone made a brief, convulsive movement, but Jack warned them off with a searing look, before turning back to Matthew. "You brought Charlotte back," he said, "and you got us to Skeleton Island, as well as allowing us to get off it. I suppose you've earned some of the respect you thought you were entitled to in the first place. But if you're going to go around ordering men hit in their weak spots, you should damn well know how it feels. Now your whole face can hurt, not just half, and I'll call the account settled. Touch Sam again, though, and I'll kill you. Understood?"

Matthew paused, then nodded, with considerable composure for someone who had lost his mother (even if they had not yet had the chance to tell him), his ship, his patron, and his valuable Jacobite prisoner, as well as then being awarded matching bruises on both cheeks. Jack offered him a hand, however, and pulled him to his feet, just as there was a second sound at the door. Regina's voice said,  _"Liam?"_ and Cecilia's said,  _"Aunt Charlotte?"_ And then in a flurry of skirts, they both ran in and embraced their returned vagabonds, breathless with delight.

As they did, Emma watched Sam's face. For the first time since his return to life, she saw some of the numbness and the darkness crack and shatter, and a shy, utterly relieved smile take its place. She moved over to put her arms around him, and he leaned against her. "Mum," he said, somewhat muffled. "I think I want more breakfast."

It took at least the rest of the morning to sort everything and everyone out. Jack took Charlotte off, presumably to tell her what they had learned about Alix, and Geneva and Jim went to do the same with Matthew about Eleanor. When that was finished, even Matthew's icy self-possession, which had survived so much thus far, looked as if it might be on its last legs, and Killian moved over. "Hey, lad," he said. "Come with me, we'll find you a place to sleep."

Matthew hesitated a final moment, then gave in, and Killian took charge of him, leading him up the stairs. Emma stood watching them go, happily engulfed in the familial chaos and the swirl of reunions, but still feeling that poignant sting in her heart. Among all the chatter and catching up and sheer relief – she spotted Sam, Jack, and Cecilia all sitting together, listening raptly to Charlotte's account of her adventures – the only one who did not look overjoyed was Flint. He was standing by himself in the corner, observing everything with a remote expression, and Emma quietly moved over to him. "Are you all right?"

"Aye," Flint said. "I'm fine. They've made it back, and even with the fucking treasure, the only reason everyone went to that godforsaken place. Why wouldn't I be?"

"None of us went to Skeleton Island because of the treasure," Emma said softly. "Neither did he. You know that. If you want to grieve him, it's all right."

"I…" Flint paused, then shook his head. "No. I'm not going to grieve him, because I don't think he's dead. Not really. Perhaps Long John Silver died there in his turn, the way Captain Flint did the first time, but I suspect he would agree that it was long past time. And James McGraw eventually made it off that island. Perhaps John Silver will do the same. I do not suppose you can feel that, in this case, the world was anything less than mercilessly just." He snorted, without mirth. "But if there is a single man in the world whom that place could not do anything to, it would be him. He already knows everything it would say to him, whisper in his ear, all the tricks it would try to play. I daresay he has done the lot of them to himself, long before it ever got the chance. It could try and try, but it would never break him, never cause a single moment of discomfort or distress, because he knows his own darkness, and the freedom within it. Has sketched and mapped and illuminated every inch of it, masterly as a cartographer. And yet he has never found the one thing he wants – that we all want – the most. The way out."

Emma looked at him a long moment, soft and troubled and tender. "You found that way out," she said quietly. "And it came, no matter how involuntarily, through that island."

"Aye." Flint continued to stare at the wall. "And so, if his time there should lead to the same for him, I cannot regret it, even as I might wish it to be otherwise. We all did, all this time. As for the treasure, there's more of it, did you know? Since the  _Walrus_ remained partially afloat, there were still a few chests left in her hull, and I pulled them ashore and hid them. So if people want to return to that fucking place to search for it, they can be my guest."

"I don't think you'd find anyone willing to go back, if they had been there once and escaped with their skin," Emma said. "I certainly wouldn't."

Flint grinned, again without any humor. "I've now done it twice. I see absolutely no reason to tempt fate a third time."

"I'd agree." Emma put a hand on his arm, until he finally looked around at her. "Thank you for saving our family. Thank you for fighting for us as hard as you did. I know Silver didn't come back, but you're the reason the rest of us did."

Flint tried to think of an answer to that, and failed. He opened his mouth again, then shut it. Finally he leaned over, kissed her forehead, and without another word, walked away.

The next several days passed in the same flurry of activity and reconciliation. Matthew kept his promise, though it clearly gave him a terrible stomachache to do it, and allowed Gideon and the  _Hispaniola_ to slip discreetly out the back, once the surviving  _Griffin_ men had been put ashore and fresh supplies had been taken on. He went over to Charlie's to stay with Liam and Regina, and as Liam reported to Emma and Killian, was not entirely sure what he was planning to do next. Robert Gold had been his patron for most of his career, but Gold was dead, and had savagely betrayed him first. Matthew's ship had been destroyed, his beliefs upended, and he had discovered, doubtless after several years of feeling like one, that he had in fact become an orphan. "He's handling it well, for a man of his age," Liam said. "But merely returning to his post as a captain in the Navy, as if nothing has happened, seems out."

"We seem to have that effect on them, don't we?" Killian looked wry. "I know you and Regina have been spending plenty of time with Henry recently, and I'm glad for it. But you and Matthew seem to get on, and he certainly looks up to you. Regina's said that you'll be returning from Paris, and… well. Not that I'd tell you what to do, but perhaps you'd like to keep him around more permanently."

Liam looked shocked. "What – adopt him? Do you think he'd ever agree to that?"

"So it's a matter of him agreeing?" Killian regarded his brother shrewdly. "You and Regina never had your own children, and you're a bit elderly to start anew with a baby. I doubt it has to be any sort of formal arrangement, but if you can manage me, you can certainly manage him. Keep him from going off the rails too far, eh? I think both of you would like that. And besides, there's a certain… fitting nature to one of us taking in Woodes Rogers' boy, don't you think? You and Regina can still settle in Philadelphia, close to Henry and Violet, but perhaps you haven't entirely missed your own chance after all."

Liam's mouth was still open, so he closed it. Then he nodded, still looking as if someone had hit him with something heavy. "I'll – I'll ask them. Regina and Matthew. I think we'd like it… very much."

Emma reached out, taking her brother-in-law's hand. "Eleanor Guthrie was my friend, and James's. Geneva and Jim and Thomas cared for her before she died, and… I agree with what Killian said. That one of us should do this for Rogers' son. I think it should be you."

"I hope so." Liam cleared his throat gruffly, coughed, and said again, "I hope so."

* * *

It was the night before Christmas, and the world was cold and dark and clear, windows burning with warm yellow glow and the distant sounds of various revelry and merriment drifting from across the city. Earlier, the family had all been together for supper, and Sam was sitting on the davenport, wrapped up in a quilt and watching the yule log smolder in the hearth. David had put up some trappings of holly and mistletoe, the stockings were hung for Father Christmas (by which, Sam supposed, Mum or Dad would try to sneak down here at midnight without the stairs creaking and slip some candied fruit and sweeties in) and for what felt like the first time in forever, he was truly looking forward to something. Felt like a small and puny and frightened creature let out of a deep dark cell, only cautiously venturing to sniff the air. Might still run back to its cage at any moment if a cloud passed over, but for now, wanted,  _needed_ to be free.

Sam shifted his position, wondering if there was any of the mince pie left over from supper. He was finally starting to eat again on a regular basis, and his gunshot wound was scabbed over into an impressively gnarled knot of scar tissue beneath his ribs, still prone to shoot a bolt through his chest at inopportune moments. But it was healing, like the rest of him. He could walk around without wanting to faint, believe it or not. Uncle Liam and Charlotte were back, and he hadn't killed them. It even seemed to be the case that Matthew Rogers might be hanging around, which Sam didn't mind. Ending up as cousins with the bugger was not how he had seen this going, to be sure, but then, neither was the rest of it.

And then, of course. Jack. The one thing he had never expected, never seen coming, and could barely stop thinking about long enough to do anything else. After Jack told him the reasons for his reticence in pushing forward with anything physical, Sam had been completely horrified, and blamed himself at once for being so insensitive. Jack had urged him not to, that there was clearly no way he could have known, but Sam still felt guilty, and self-conscious about trying again. They saw each other nearly every day, but Jack had not yet stayed the night again, and there was plenty more remaining to be said, to be done, to work on and build toward. Sam wanted to, wanted it more than anything in his life, and yet, he could not be sure if Jack was planning to stay. He thought so. He certainly  _hoped_. It was clear at least that Jack wouldn't go anywhere until Sam was recovered, and that left Sam himself quite muddled. Of course he wanted to be better, but if his return to health meant that Jack would leave, he almost preferred to stay ill.

And yet. On the other hand, the one thing he had definitely lost and was  _not_  going to get back was Nathaniel, and Sam knew there was no easy way to get over that loss, and no way at all to forgive himself for it. Whenever they did get back to Savannah, he still had to face Nathaniel's mum and dad, and Isabelle. It seemed so long ago that winning Isabelle Hunt's approval had been the only thing in the world that mattered to him, the reason he had tramped off to be a soldier, and now he couldn't even exactly remember what she looked like. She certainly had never exchanged more than the usual polite words with her brother's best friend.  _I come back and tell her, tell them, that I got him killed, and then… and then what?_

Sam didn't know, and it exhausted him to speculate. Perhaps he should go up to bed, as there would be celebrations and food and other enjoyable things tomorrow, but Jack had gone back to Uncle Charlie's house with Cecilia and Charlotte, and it was peaceful and quiet down here. After several moments, however, he spotted a shadow moving in the dining room, then sitting down at the table, and heard the clink of a bottle and glass as a drink was poured. Sam hesitated, then got up and went in. "Hey, Grandpa."

Flint glanced up with a start. "Sam."

"I'm missing someone too," Sam said. "Can I sit with you?"

Flint looked as if he was thinking about denying it, then didn't bother. He pulled out a chair, and Sam slid into it, taking a second glass of rum when Flint passed it to him. His grandfather didn't bother asking why the two of them were sitting here late on Christmas Eve, rather than upstairs comfortably in bed or otherwise happily awaiting the approach of the holiday. They sipped in silence, listening to the steady tick of the clock in the hall. When it chimed midnight, they began to hear the faint sound of church bells from across the city, which made Flint's mouth twist. "New Providence Island," he said, enunciating the words with a deliberate care that made it clear this was not his first drink. "Devoted observer of Christian ceremony. I truly have seen it all."

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "About Mr. Silver."

Flint considered that, then put down several more swallows of rum. "He did what he set out to do," he said, after a moment. "Saved us from Billy – though you and I had more to do with that, ultimately – and set his books right. Whatever I feel now over his exile on Skeleton Island, and whatever death came for him as a result – I suppose he felt it over me the first time around. All the positions reversed, all the tables turned. Two sides of the same coin, as ever. We cannot help but mirror. When one rises, the other is thrust into shadow. And when one falls, so, in some way, does the other. I suppose we'll never entirely escape it."

Sam didn't answer. Finally, however, he put a hand on his grandfather's shoulder, feeling very odd. This was the thing that your parents and your grandparents did for you – comforting you, trying to make things better, sorting through your problems – and perhaps if Flint had been slightly more sober, he would have clammed up as he usually did, or considered it too much to bother Sam with. He wasn't, however, and he hadn't, and he didn't, and for the first time, Sam Jones felt as if he might not have mucked it up entirely, this growing-up business. This part about being a man that his family could be proud of, and that he could. Then he pushed the rum bottle away. "Come on, Grandpa," he said. "It's Christmas. We should go to bed."

Flint grunted, nodded, and got to his feet, only somewhat unsteadily. They made their way up to the dark second-floor corridor, and along it to the doors of their respective bedrooms. Before Flint let himself in, however, he reached out and pulled Sam into a gruff, one-armed hug. He cleared his throat firmly a few times, then let him go. "I'm glad you're on the mend," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow – well, I suppose later this – morning. Good night."

"Good night, Grandpa," Sam said. "You too."

With that, he headed along the hall to his own room, let himself in, and crawled into bed, pulling the covers up. Could hear a few church bells still sounding, off in the distance. Listened to the quiet of the house, and everyone fast asleep, and felt both happier and sadder than he ever had in his life.  _Peace on earth._ Not bloody likely. And yet perhaps, for now, in just a small bit, there might be, and after the darkness and danger and terror and torment, that was enough.

Christmas morning was an appropriately merry muddle. Uncle Charlie had insisted on hosting a festive luncheon, so they would be there later, before returning here with everyone for David Nolan's setpiece supper. In the meantime, Flint, Miranda, Thomas, David, Killian, Emma, Sam, and Geneva opened gifts, had coffee and sweet rolls, and Flint was just starting into his usual grumbles about carolers (who would turn up on people's doorsteps, sing badly, and then demand to be paid for the service) when there was another knock, which turned out to be Jack, Jim, Charlotte, and Cecilia. Evidently they had felt that noon was too long to wait to see them.

Geneva hurried over, a sprig of tinsel in her hair, to kiss Jim, watched all the while by the gimlet eye of her grandfather, who finally sighed deeply and appeared to resign himself to the fact that she could do much worse. Jack and Sam, for their part, stared at each other in a moment of considerable uncertainty. Finally, Jack coughed. "Happy Christmas."

"And you." Sam looked at Charlotte and Cecilia, who had already seated themselves among the general flutter and were chatting animatedly with Miranda. "Does Charlotte – what you said about Alix and her being the daughter of – did you – she knows?"

"Aye, she knows," Jack said. "I told her."

"And are you…" Sam hesitated. "Going back to Philadelphia to look for Alix together? If you did, I… I don't want to be an imposition to that. You're still married."

"About that." Jack cracked half a smile. "We are, and in some ways we always will be, and I'll be grateful for it. But as for the rest, we've talked it over, and had your uncle Charles find us a solicitor, and he advised us that marriages can be legally annulled on the grounds of non-consummation. Which, you ask me, is another stupid aspect of common law and its bloody fixation on sex, because we've been plenty more married than many couples that did sleep together once and call it a day. Any event. We've agreed to sign the papers, so soon we won't be anymore. We've fulfilled our bargain. We escaped London, she killed Howe, and I helped her find Alix. Almost, at any rate. We're both free."

"Oh," Sam said, rather ridiculously. "So you're… you're staying, then?"

"If you wanted me to." Jack seemed suddenly shy. "If you didn't, I – "

"Please," Sam said. "Don't finish that sentence."

"I hoped so." Jack looked down at him. The faint grin reappeared. "I just had to check."

"You're an idiot," Sam informed him. "Just so you know."

Jack shrugged. "Never said I wasn't."

They remained staring at each other for a moment longer, and then, since it was bloody Christmas and he was there and this was finally so, Sam did not give a fat candied fig that they were literally standing in front of his entire family. He grabbed Jack and kissed him thoroughly, Jack kissed him back with just as much enthusiasm, and they only broke apart when Charlotte jokingly threw a bit of ribbon at them. "Not  _yet,_ remember?"

"Er." Sam coughed, trying to get his breath back. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Charlotte got to her feet, came over, and to Sam's vast surprise, hugged him tightly. "Thank you," she said. "For everything you've done for him. Thank you."

Sam was not quite sure what exactly he had done, but did not want to say so, and hugged her back, since it seemed the polite thing. They loitered around and chatted a bit more, until it was time to get dressed and make their way over to Uncle Charlie's for luncheon. Charlie, Liam, Regina, Henry, Violet, Richard, and Lucy greeted them warmly, and Killian raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "Where's Matthew?"

"He wasn't sure that he was invited," Charlie said, with half a glance at Jack and Flint, Matthew's principal (at least until recently) nemeses. "He said he'd make arrangements to eat at the supper club. I told him he should come, but I suppose it's your call."

Killian looked at Sam. "You're all right with that, lad?"

"Me?" Sam said, surprised. "Look, I told Matthew back on Barbados, I didn't hold a grudge. Frankly, if Uncle Liam and Aunt Regina are going to keep him, we'll be seeing a lot more of each other. I'm confident I can get Jack and Grandpa to behave, and it's cruel to make him sit by himself on Christmas. Aye, tell him to come down."

Charlie paused, then nodded, and vanished upstairs. He returned shortly with Matthew, who had a fairly impressive scar on one cheek, a yellowing bruise on the other, and an uncharacteristically tentative expression. "Mr. Jones," he said, this addressed to Sam. "I am told that I have you to thank for my inclusion. I… did want to finally apologize properly, for what happened on board the… my ship. Back when I picked you two up near Nevis."

"It's all right," Sam said. "I'm not angry, I swear. You were just doing what you felt you had to, so it was a mess, but… you've changed, eh? You've changed."

"I suppose I have." Matthew blew out a breath. "But as you said, what I felt I had to do was… well. It was wrong. I am not going to pretend that the last several months have been in any part enjoyable for me, or that I quite understand everything that has happened. In any event, despite your gracious and generous forfeiture of an apology, that does not preclude the need for one on my part. So, if you will accept it, I offer it. As your – as Mr. Bellamy said, if I have been in the habit of hitting men in their weak spots, I should know how it feels, and after all this… one cannot say that I have not gotten what I deserved. So." He shrugged, as if trying to be matter-of-fact, but his lips quivered. "I'm sorry."

"Hey," Sam said. "You've been through a hell of a lot, you've lost just about everything you had or believed in, and from what I can tell, you've managed it far better than most of us would. You've stayed yourself, but you've changed, and so have I, and that… well. That isn't the worst thing in the world, and that's something to start with. So." He offered his hand. "Friends?"

Matthew regarded him for a long moment, then smiled. He clearly regretted it instantly, as it must have been quite painful with his mashed-up face, but he took Sam's hand and shook it. "Aye," he said. "It's more than something. Thank you."

The family had lunch, talked some more, and then around three o'clock, made their way back to David's house in order to help with supper. David himself had been cooking since they left, and the place was full of delicious-smelling steam. They had to jam several tables end-to-end to fit everyone, constantly running into each other in doorways and juggling dishes, and there was a brief panic when they could not find enough candles, but Jim nipped back to his boarding house to steal some. When they finally all sat down to eat, Sam looked to either side and felt something warm and huge and quietly wonderful in his chest. Dad had said earlier that they had once had a Christmas together on Nassau many years ago, but that it was most rudely interrupted by Benjamin Hornigold and Josiah Hume arriving to take a massive shit all over everyone's plum pudding. Sam could not help but keep an ear out for any unexpected knocks, something abruptly going wrong, but nothing did. Maybe that was it, then. Maybe it really was over.

After supper and dessert, Sam, Geneva, Henry, Jack, and Jim helped clean up the mounds of dishes, while Henry gave the genial older brother runaround to both of his younger siblings' new attachments. It was quite late when Charlie and his houseguests headed home, and Sam went into the parlor to have a final piece of cake. His parents were sitting on the davenport, Emma's head on Killian's shoulder, and they both smiled at him with a look of sheer and absolute satisfaction and happiness. "Well," Killian said. "You and Jack."

"I, ah, yeah." Sam was full and comfortable and sleepy, and not particularly eloquent as a result. "Don't let Grandpa kill him."

Killian snorted. "Sounds as if that's something you have to sort out yourselves, lad. But I wouldn't think so. Thank you, by the way. It's your sense of adventure that got us into this, and which brought us all together again. Are you – are you going to be all right? It's been a hell of a time, and…"

Sam considered. Then he padded over and climbed onto the cushions between his parents, the way he had liked to sit when he was small, and let them take hold of him, listening to them breathe, and to the crackle of the fire. "Yeah," he said. "I think I will be."

* * *

The last week of the year was downright cold. Not quite enough to frost or snow, as this  _was_  still the Caribbean, but certainly colder than most people could remember it being, and there was not much business to do, everyone still preoccupied with the Twelve Days of Christmas and the usual evenings of fetes and soirees. That was a bit more than the family themselves could muster, at least every night, but they were certainly planning to have a Hogmanay celebration. Killian supposed that sometime after the turn of the year, whenever the weather freshened, they would think about sailing home to Georgia. It had been the bloody hell of a year, 1740, and he was not altogether sorry to see the back of it, but it had also been one of the most transformative of his life, long in the tooth though he might be getting.  _Might as well just admit one of these days that you're old, Jones. It'll happen either way._

Still, seasoned as he might be, he was not yet decrepit, and he fully intended to dance the night away at the Hogmanay revels. Madi had invited them to her villa, which had more space than either of the townhouses, and there was plenty of ale, wine, mead, cider, perry, claret, and other imbibables on offer, as well as trays of various delicacies and treats. The entire place was lit with candles and lanterns and a roaring hearth, and it felt like a highly colored dream, a few pipers and fiddlers and harpists proceeding through a catalogue of energetic reels. Killian himself was taking a moment to recover after the last one, watching Sam and Jack dance to one side and Geneva and Jim to the other, when someone touched his elbow. "Captain Jones?"

Startled, he looked around to see Madi's serving girl. "Eh? What?"

"There are a few folk asking to see you. You and the mistress, in the hall. I'm sorry to take you from the celebrations, but – "

Killian and Madi exchanged a startled look. Despite her provision of food and drink and good cheer, Madi herself had remained decidedly remote from the gaiety, watching her guests enjoy themselves with a shadow that did not quite lift from her own brow. It was, as noted, quite unexpected to have anyone come by on Hogmanay eve, as the entire island was liable to be too drunk to stand up for the next several days, but they nodded. "Very well," Madi said. "If the others ask, tell them that we shall be back shortly."

With that, they left the room, shutting the door and hearing the music through it, but muffled and distorted, the light and warmth cut off as they walked down the dark corridor to the front of the house. Despite himself, Killian could not help but recall Hornigold and Hume, and was wondering if he should have brought at least one pistol with him – but of course he didn't have one, just as he had not last time, because it was a holiday and why would he bloody walk around with one. They rounded the corner and he saw three waiting figures, all women, so he briefly and inanely wondered if the witches of Macbeth had come to pay a call instead. Then the one nearest the door turned and smiled tentatively. "Monsieur Jones. Do you remember me?"

Completely disconcerted, Killian could do nothing but gape for several moments, until everything abruptly hit him over the head like an anvil. "Mademoiselle St. Clair."

Alix St. Clair inclined her head politely, as he did the same. She looked thin and tired and windblown, clothes worn with months of traveling, but still the same pretty young woman he had rescued in Le Havre. Now that he knew her true parentage, he could see it, Anne's fine features and long hair with Jack Rackham's darker coloring. And on that note –

"Hook." The second woman stepped forward. Her own auburn braid was well streaked with grey, her face weathered and sunburned like any old salt's, but it was one of the first times that Killian had ever seen her – aside from in years – without her ubiquitous hat. "Been a long time."

"Miss… Captain Bonny." Killian nodded to her as well, thinking all of a sudden that he was not surprised in the least. "So it has."

Anne Bonny grunted, as she had never once been accused of loquacity in her life, but there was a brief spark of light in her eyes. They stepped forward and shook hands, and she said, "Met with my… met with her there, out at sea. Alix. Took us a while, but we sorted out the truth. She told me what you did for her, and where she was bound, and we… we thought as perhaps we'd bring her here. It's… it's as it should be."

"Aye." Killian swallowed. "We?"

Anne gestured to her companion: a short, stout middle-aged woman dressed like a man, her close-cropped hair likewise salt-and-peppered and her skin the same deep brown hide of a sailor's. "This is Mary. Miss Read. My wife. Married her in the matelot fashion, a while after we… we lost Jack. I'm not no mother, really. Never was. But we heard what them fuckin' Englishmen, and that fuckin' Frenchman, did to my – to Alix, and to her Charlotte, and we weren't going to bloody let that stand. So." She shrugged, almost shyly. "Here we are."

"Aye," Killian said again. "And my… my ship?"

"The  _Jolie?"_ Anne almost smiled. "The old girl's served us well. Been all sorts o' places on her. Recently, though, we ended up tangled with a fuckin' Spanish man-of-war, and managed to lose her. Then realized where we were. Waited a while to see if she would come back, if she'd have anything worth the taking. She didn't. All we picked up was this half-drowned bastard on a raft."

With that, she pointed, and the man in the shadows, who Killian had not seen until just now, limped out of them. He looked older than ever, and very tired, and still not entirely certain what his reception would be. "I'd prefer to have waited until after the New Year," John Silver said. "It could not possibly bode well that mine be the first foot to darken your doorstep. So if it matters, I had them enter first."

Madi made a small, choked sound, hands flying to her mouth as she stared in utter disbelief. Then without any other delay whatsoever, she ran to him as he caught her, and they kissed until both of them finally had to break for breath. As they were still cradling the other's face in their hands, completely lost in their own world, Killian turned to the maidservant. "Could you please fetch my father-in-law and Mrs. Bell? And warn them that it might be a bit of a shock."

The maidservant nodded, and scuttled off. She returned in a few moments with Flint and Charlotte, who both appeared to be braced for the worst, and whose, upon getting a good look at their unexpected Hogmanay guests, jaws dropped in unison. Alix and Charlotte just stared for several stunned instants, clearly not believing their eyes. Then they ran to each other, flung themselves into each other's arms, and kissed nearly as long as Madi and Silver had, clutching hold and crying freely. Anne regarded them with a shy, gruff pride, and she and Mary glanced at each other, then quietly took hands.

For his part, Flint had remained exactly where he was, totally thunderstruck. Then at last, roughly, he cleared his throat. "You son of a  _bitch."_

Silver looked as if he had no idea what to say to that. Finally he settled on, "Happy New Year?"

Flint made a sound that was not a laugh and not a snarl and not a sob. Then he took a step, and another, and another, and reached Silver, and for half a moment they looked about to stop and awkwardly shake hands. But instead Flint wrapped both arms around him, as Silver did the same, and they remained completely motionless, holding each other ferociously and (at least in Flint's case) swearing under his breath. Until at last he pulled back, looked at Silver for a long moment, and then leaned down and kissed his forehead. "Fuck you," he said, as gently and tenderly as James Flint had ever said anything to anyone, and the real meaning of which was obvious to anyone with a functional set of eyes and ears. "Welcome home."

Silver tried to say something, and yet, at last, was completely at a loss for words. They stepped back, Madi took hold of his arm again, and after Flint made a brief gesture of invitation, Silver followed them very hesitantly back toward the party. Alix and Charlotte looked as if they were intending to stay where they were for a while, and as Killian wondered if he should ask Anne and Mary if they would like a drink, Anne touched his elbow. "Oy. Hook."

"Ah – yes?"

She regarded him as if weighing something up, then jerked her head. "Get your jacket."

"Are we going somewhere?"

"Just for a moment," Anne said. "Then we'll be back."

Somewhat puzzled, but feeling as if he might be grateful for a spot of fresh air after the heat and light and noise of the party, not to mention the emotion of the reunions, Killian did as instructed, following her out into the night. He had a sudden memory of when she had ambushed him from an alley during his first visit here, demanding to know who he really was, as she had not bought the charade of "Captain Hook" at all and had been inclined to hold a knife to his throat until he confessed otherwise. It made his mouth pluck up briefly, wryly, at the thought of all the time that had passed for all of them, the people they had been then and the ones they were now. He wondered where they were going, and why it couldn't wait until morning, but –

Oh.

_Oh._

Killian had a moment to consider that he really should have bloody seen this coming, and then another moment in which he had to struggle very hard not to sob like a schoolboy, as they stepped down onto the dark, deserted docks of Nassau harbor, Anne led him to the end, and pointed. There, riding at anchor with her sails furled, but with the sounds drifting from the deck suggesting that the crew left aboard was having their own Hogmanay party, looking older just like the rest of them, hard-sailed and hard-used, was his girl. The  _Jolie Rouge_ in the flesh, or rather the wood and canvas and rope, looking almost exactly as he remembered her. Anne and Mary had clearly made several modifications over the years, the figurehead was different, there were bits missing, others roughly patched and – and yet. And yet. It was her. It was her.

Killian stared for several minutes, perfectly happy to pretend that the cold wind was the reason for the water in his eyes, even as he knew that Anne was not remotely fooled. They stood there side by side, a pair of old pirates looking at a ship they both loved, which they had both served as captain on, and which finally had brought the lost pieces of both their far-flung families back together. Finally Killian said croakily, "Thank you."

Anne paused, then nodded. "We can go out to her tomorrow," she said. "You can have a poke about. Think you'd like that."

"I – I would." Killian wiped his eyes on the cuff of his jacket. He was not entirely sure that he had ever felt more blessed in his life than he did just now, the old year passing quietly away beneath the stars, and the new one rushing in. He took one more long look at his old friend, couldn't stop smiling, and then he turned away. Started with Anne back up the hill toward the house where they were all waiting: his parents-in-law, his wife, his sons and daughter and their associated significant others and/or children, his brother, his sister-in-law, his freshly acquired nephew, David Nolan, Madi Scott, Charles Swan, and their friends. Anne's wife and daughter and that daughter's lover, and of all people, John bloody Silver. All together beneath one roof, and even the sure and certain knowledge that tonight, somewhere, Sam Bellamy was safe, at rest, at peace. And that soon they would be home, and that their days would go on, and more years each come and go by in turn, and that it was well with them.

Killian Jones was quite sure that there was nothing else any man could ask for, or ever be given. And so, as the silver moon emerged from the clouds, as he reached the haven of house and hearth and came in from the cold, he paused for a moment alone, hung up his jacket, and wept.


	33. Epilogue

**New York City**

**April 1755**

The carriage rolled to a muddy-wheeled halt in front of the handsome stone rowhouse, the driver jumped down from the running board to hold the door open, and Geneva accepted his hand out into the street, while Jim fished out a few pence to cover the tariff and tossed him the extra. Diana wriggled past both of them and ran up the steps, whereupon she performed the impatient dance common to all eleven-year-olds whose parents were moving far too slowly for their taste. In her defense, it had been a fortnight on the journey up from Tortola, and there was not much room to run around on board. The  _Athena_ was smaller than the  _Rose,_ a two-masted brigantine not dissimilar to the  _Blackbird_ that Mother had sailed once upon a time, and while she had served well since the old girl was given a dignified retirement several years ago, there were times when even Geneva found herself with a touch of cabin fever. It would be nice to have (for once) some space. Not to mention, actual privacy.

As Jim bent to heft their bags, the driver climbed back into his seat and clicked to the horses, and the hire carriage lumbered away. Geneva started up the steps to join her daughter, who was standing on her tiptoes in an attempt to reach the knocker. "Diana, you  _could_ help your father with the luggage, you know."

Diana gave her a look as if to say that fathers by their very nature existed to carry luggage, which made Geneva bite her cheek. She couldn't deny that she too was very much looking forward to this, and as Jim made a manful effort with the various satchels, portmanteaus, and other whatsits, Geneva knocked. She was at least impressed with the house, if not necessarily the location. Manhattan was a small and boggy island that had been bought on the cheap by some Dutch fur traders in 1626 and christened New Amsterdam, captured by the English in 1664 and renamed in honor of James, the Duke of York, and while it was making some effort at turning into a real city, it was still nothing to compare with Boston or Philadelphia. But now that it had its own university – King's College, founded last year by royal charter of George II – perhaps it would flourish in turn. That, after all, was what they were here to celebrate.

After a moment, the door opened, and Diana let out a joyful squeal. "Uncle Sam!"

"Hey, you're here!" Sam Jones managed to hug his niece with one arm, his sister with the other, and exchange a cordial nod with his brother-in-law. "Voyage not bad, then?"

"Nothing out of the usual," Geneva said. "A bit fresh with the spring winds, but we made good time. I wasn't going to miss this, anyway."

Sam flashed a crooked grin, which gave her a brief and strange sense of no time passing at all. It was almost five years since she had seen her brother, and he was now in his middle thirties (Geneva herself was a year away from the rather daunting age of forty) but he looked exactly the same as ever, tall and thin and genial, with the faint hint of laugh lines around his eyes. He considerately moved to unladen Jim from some of his burden, pretended to break his back for Diana's benefit, and led them into the house, which still smelled of new carpentry and unfinished plasterwork, trunks not yet entirely unpacked and afternoon sunlight slanting on the wall. "Oy, Jack. They made it. Well, some of them, anyway."

They passed through the sitting room, where Sam and Jim left the bags, and then stepped into the dining room at the back of the house, where Jack was sitting at the table and perusing a stack of notes with intent, frowning attention. At the sound of their entrance, he looked up, then actually smiled. "Good to see you, Hawkinses."

"And you." Geneva stepped over to kiss her brother-in-law's cheek. He had a few threads of silver in his black ponytail, and he was wearing reading glasses, which he must have had made in Philadelphia before they left; Ben Franklin, whom Henry was still working with, had recently invented a sort of spectacle known as bifocals. They conferred an attractively educated and mature air on him, which suited quite well. After all, Jack had just been invited to take up a chair of medicine at the newly founded King's College, after working for several years at the Academy of Philadelphia (coincidentally also founded by Franklin). The hope was that this would eventually lead to the establishment of a proper medical school, the first in the Colonies, and either way, the honor was considerable. Looking at him now, Geneva thought, you would never guess either how he had started out, or that it was the same man. Dr. Jack Bellamy, indeed.

"Sit down," Jack said, going to poke the embers in the coal stove and put the kettle back on. "There's several rooms upstairs, you can choose which one you want. Though the one at the end leaks, they haven't finished the roof. Still, I think we've done well."

"You have," Geneva said. "Who knows, one day maybe property in Manhattan will actually turn out to be valuable."

"I'm just hoping it doesn't rain as much as Scotland," Sam remarked. "Anything else, I'm flexible."

Jack arched an eyebrow at his dearest spouse, but forbore to actually comment. A year after the events of Skeleton Island, he had moved to Edinburgh to begin his education at the university's medical school, paid for by part of the Jones family's share of the treasure. Sam, accustomed to the sun, sea, and heat of Georgia, had loathed Scotland with every fiber of his being, especially crowded, sooty, filthy, rainy Edinburgh, but considered it an acceptable trade-off in order to be with Jack. However, just as Jack was finishing his studies, the long-rumored second Jacobite rising had broken out, involving a brief occupation of Edinburgh by Prince Charles' army, and the battle of Culloden in April 1746 had been an absolute disaster for the Scots, with ramifications long beyond the fight itself. Jack had embarked on a daring and dangerous campaign through the ravaged Highlands, offering his medical services free of charge to anyone hurt by the English, which was quite a few. He and Sam could have both been hanged for aiding and abetting traitors if they were caught, and they had several more hair-raising adventure stories from this period. Indeed they had finally left in 1749 after one too many close shaves with the law, moved to Philadelphia, and Jack had begun to teach at Ben Franklin's fledgling university. Henry and Violet were still there, as were Liam and Regina, so they had plenty of family nearby. And New York, of course, was not far away.

Jack poured them tea, found a few biscuits for Diana, and they sat down for a refreshing post-travel constitutional. "Who else is coming?" Geneva asked. "Us, Mother and Daddy, and – Henry and Violet threw you a farewell party before you left, didn't they?"

"Aye," Jack said. "Henry has a printing project he needs to finish for Franklin, and Richard's getting married soon anyway, they have to stay and prepare for that. Besides, he's up to New York fairly often, we'll see each other. Liam and Regina are getting too old to travel, so they wished us well in Philadelphia too, but I heard that Matthew, Cordelia, and Martha might turn up." He shrugged, with a slight wry smile. "Still surprises me."

"Martha?" Diana perked up, as she was best friends with her cousin, close to her in age and the family member she had seen the most of. Geneva and Jim sailed the  _Athena_ across the Caribbean and the colonies on various ventures and opportunities, and on the longer of those voyages, they left Diana in the care of Matthew's wife, Cordelia. Matthew himself was still in the Royal Navy, having accepted a new commission as captain of HMS  _Lancaster_. However, he had acquired a reputation of one of the most coolly fair-minded and independently inclined captains in the Admiralty, openly ignored orders that he felt were unjustified or unwise, and actually did what the Navy was supposed to do and so often fell short upon: serving and protecting those who needed it. He had also dedicated himself personally to the dismantling of all of Robert Gold's secret societies and patronage networks and dirty politics, and the same with Fiona Murray's. This had likewise earned him some new enemies, but he felt it all to the good. So did his adopted parents, for that matter.

"Aye, they might make it," Jack said, grinning at his niece. "Charlotte and Alix will be here too, and Cecilia and her new husband. I have to meet the man, make sure he's good enough for her. He's named Stevenson, that's all I know. Another Scotsman from Edinburgh, actually. A trader in a West Indies firm."

"It'll be a proper party for you, then," Geneva said. "The ceremony at the college is what – Friday? Mother and Daddy should be here tomorrow, if the wind cooperates from Savannah. It's a bit of a long journey at their age, but they're a pair of old sailors, so they insisted."

"I'm sure Dad would point out that he's  _only_ sixty-eight," Sam said. "Like Grandpa used to."

A solemn silence fell over the table. James Flint had died last year at the age of eighty-one, after a brief illness, which Geneva had not been able to get back to Georgia in time for. Perhaps it was for the best, as her grandfather told her, the last time they saw each other, that he did not want that to be her last memory of him. That when he died, he would be the sky and the wind and the sea, and he would see her there anyway. Geneva was inclined to think that this was true, as she had had more than one dream about him, and sometimes woke in the dimness of the  _Athena's_ cabin to think that he was still there, sitting at the desk and listening to the lap of morning waves against the hull, watching her with that amused green gaze before he faded back into the mist. She knew with that same utter and absolute conviction that he was all right, that he was free and happy and safe, and that was good.

Besides, it had been cruelty to make James McGraw, the man who had become Flint for the depths of his true loves, live the last four years of his life without them. Thomas had died in 1747, at seventy-five, and Miranda in 1750, at the same. It was made easier, if such a thing was possible, by the knowledge that Sam Bellamy was waiting on the other side to take care of them, to see them again, but it had still broken James to let them go one more time, to be – as ever – the last one left behind. The last time Geneva had seen him was at her grandmother's funeral. Her downright immortal grandfather looked, at last, very old, and very tired, and very heartsick. She had worried that he would be unbearably lonely, and James told her that Silver and Madi had agreed to come up from Nassau to keep him company for a while. As far as Geneva was aware, they had then stayed. She didn't know for certain if John Silver, who had lived so long with the guilt of destroying Captain Flint, had been with James McGraw when he finally went to his real rest, but she certainly hoped so.

"I wish Granny could have seen this," Sam said, after a long pause. "She'd have been so proud of you, Jack."

"She was already." Jack smiled faintly. Miranda had gotten to see him become a physician, to take up his appointment at the Academy of Philadelphia, and to be happy for many years with Sam, and they had kept up a fairly regular correspondence while Jack and Sam were living in Edinburgh. "And I think she knows, besides."

They all nodded, still subdued, but the conversation revived after that. Sam said apologetically that they had not yet managed to hire a cook, and both of them were horrible at it, so supper was somewhat scant, but Geneva and Jim gallantly overlooked it. They chatted well into the night, after Diana had been sent up to bed, exchanging various anecdotes from their explorations and travels, and only decided that it was quite late enough when the hallway clock struck one. Lying next to her sleeping husband, Geneva stretched out luxuriantly on a mattress where her arms and legs did not immediately hit the wall (as she got older, she had to admit that there was something to be said for creature comfort) and looked up at the unfinished crown molding over the windows. Jack and Sam were clearly planning to live here a long time, to make a permanent home, and there were certainly moments when Geneva wanted to retire from the seafaring life and stay on dry land for the rest of her days. She might like for Diana to become captain of the  _Athena_ after her, but Diana wanted to do other things, had other interests and passions, and Geneva was perfectly happy to see her follow those. In the meantime, she and Jim would keep sailing together until they didn't want to anymore. But not yet. Not yet.

Geneva slept well, and woke the next morning at least somewhat refreshed. She dressed and went downstairs, and after breakfast, Sam volunteered to take them out to see the city, at which Jack looked up anxiously and told them to be careful. To absolutely nobody's surprise, there was yet another war going on, between the British on one side and the French and Indians on the other, and there had been several meetings in Albany to discuss the threat, as well as fighting near Fort Niagara and Fort Oswego in the northern part of the colony, close to the border with French Canada. Various lurid stories of Indian massacres and French advances were thus circulating, and while Jack likely did not believe they were actually in danger of strolling into the middle of a battle, he always preferred to err on the side of caution where Sam's safety was involved. It was, Geneva thought, really rather sweet.

In any event, she, Jim, and Diana spent a pleasant morning out with Sam, were not scalped or ambushed, and dropped by King's College to see Jack's new workplace, at which point Diana announced that she wanted to go here when she was older. The rather fussy proctor showing them around blinked owlishly from behind his pince-nez. "That is an extraordinary notion, Miss Hawkins, but I cannot see that it would be possible. The College is for the education of young men, you see. I suggest you focus on more ladylike subjects."

Diana, who had likewise been raised with the assurance that she could and should try anything she set her mind to, stared back at him fiercely. "You'll be dead when I'm older."

Jim was briefly overcome with a coughing fit, while Geneva hoped that they were not spoiling things for Jack before he ever took up his post. She personally intended to see to it that her daughter got to do whatever she wanted, and if that involved stepping on a few crusty male toes, so much the better. On that note, they concluded the tour and headed to the docks, since Mother and Daddy were supposed to be arriving today, and they might as well wait to meet them. After this, Killian and Emma were headed down to Philadelphia to see Liam, Regina, Henry, and Violet, and attend their grandson Richard's wedding, so it was a family affair all around.

Sure enough, around midafternoon, a handsome black-hulled schooner entered the harbor, took down her canvas, and glided to a halt in the quays. Passengers soon began to disembark, making their way through the busy docklands, and Geneva squinted, then waved energetically, raising her voice. "Hey! Here!"

Killian and Emma Jones looked around, spotted them, and hurried over as fast as they could, which was not quite as fast as before. Killian was using a cane, which briefly choked Geneva's throat, one of those terribly poignant reminders that your parents were mortal and fallible and growing older, that all of them had. There likewise was not much dark left in Killian's silver hair, and Emma's, pulled back in an elegant knot, was entirely white. But both of them looked delighted to see their children, son-in-law, and granddaughter, and kisses, hugs, and handshakes (the latter between Killian and Jim) were exchanged. Geneva nodded at her father's cane. "Finally slowed down, have you?

"Had a bad fall last year, unfortunately, and it helps." Killian sighed. "This getting old business is a bloody pain in the backside, love. You'll see what I mean."

"I've noticed." Geneva bit her lip, then smiled again, kissing her mother's cheek. "How's Savannah?"

"It's…" Emma weighed her words. As they had feared would someday happen, slavery had been legalized in Georgia in 1751, and it now ran to the same voracious, devouring rhythm as the other southern colonies, in its plantations and flesh markets and unbearable cruelties. "It's… different."

"We've lived there too long to really want to move," Killian said, "and likewise, I'm afraid we're not quite cut out for cold weather anymore. But when Silver and Madi left after – after James, they said that they were going to Lancelot and Ursula's island to live out the rest of their days. Could be that we'll join them. Maybe we're not too old for one last adventure."

"I'd hope not." Emma smiled affectionately at her husband and took his arm. "In the meantime, though, I could use some refreshment after this one."

Sam and Jim grabbed their things, and the family made their way back to the Bellamy-Jones residence, where they discovered that Charlotte, Alix, Cecilia, and Cecilia's new husband, Allan Stevenson, had arrived just an hour earlier and were being warmly received by Jack (with the exception of Allan, whom he was still staring at with an expression of squiggle-eyed suspicion). There were another round of hugs and greetings, Charlotte and Alix took pity on the men and cooked dinner, and they were just sitting down to eat when there was one final knock on the door. This proved to be a windblown Matthew, Cordelia, and Martha Rogers, and as Martha and Diana squealed and ran to hug each other, Matthew cleared his throat and looked at Jack. "Ah – congratulations, Dr. Bellamy."

"Thank you, Captain Rogers." Jack reached out, and they shook hands, without even attempting to break the other's fingers. As Jack looked at all of them, crammed into his dining room and talking away, Geneva could see him struggling to possibly believe it in the slightest. That he was here in his own home with his husband and all of their extended family, preparing to celebrate his promotion to a professor of medicine at King's College, that the spring night was warm and long and gold, and that it was real, and right, and good.

The house, while sizeable, was not  _quite_ large enough to fit everybody, so Matthew and his family, and Cecilia and Allan, finally departed to the boarding house down the street, where they had taken rooms. Geneva was feeling as if she needed quiet time after all the hubbub and socialization, so she went up to her and Jim's bedroom and shut the door, listening to the murmur of conversation from below. There was still some blue light lingering on the floorboards, and she went to the desk and lit the candles, gazing thoughtfully out the window and onto the street. Then she turned away, went to her bag, and removed her writing book.

Geneva unpacked her quill and inkwell and pen knife, whittled the quill sharp, and opened the book, searching for the place she had left off. It wasn't much more than a collection of thoughts and scribbles and loosely linked scenes, but she had been thinking about this recently, about their family's stories, and that eventually, they might want to do something with it.  _A General History of the Pyrates_ had been a runaway bestseller, after all, and she couldn't help but feel that they too had a tale worth telling. She wasn't the right person to write it in full, but at least she could compile some of this material, their rich and colorful and tragic and vibrant history. Then one day, it could find its way into the hands of someone who could.

Geneva sat down, dipped the quill, and considered for a long moment. Then she flipped back to the front of the book, supposed that they could always change the title later, and wrote two words.

_TREASURE ISLAND._

 

**THE END**


End file.
